


A More Fascinating Name

by pukeandcry



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M, Marriage of Convenience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-06 16:17:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12214380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukeandcry/pseuds/pukeandcry
Summary: Although Sasha had never made the younger Mr. Backstrom’s acquaintance, he was at least familiar enough with his reputation to know that chief amongst his qualities was the quite publicly known fact that Mr. Backstrom was as notoriously uninterested in achieving an advantageous marriage as Sasha himself.Something, then, must have upset the order of things. What that was he could not say, but Lord Backstrom was now, it would seem, in active search of a husband for his son.





	A More Fascinating Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hardtoconcentrate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardtoconcentrate/gifts).



> Thank you so much for your wonderful prompts! It took me a minute to decide what direction to go with this because there were so many good options, but I hope almost 40k of Nicke Needs a Husband regency AU satisfies!
> 
> Absolutely would not have been able to do this without Rave, Kelly and Catie, who patiently dealt with me all the way from "haha wouldn't a regency AU be fun to do? I could never though" to "well I mean I'll just write like, 100 words, just to see" to "OH GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE." Thank you my queens!
> 
> (Oh uh also sorry to Brooks Laich for giving you the Dastardly Mr. Willoughby treatment! It's nothing personal I promise!)

As a matter of principle, Sasha was disinclined to an overabundance of leisure. He supposed, in a way, this was contradictory to his standing – his position afforded him privileges, not least of which was a wealth of time to pursue his own interests. To another, this would like as not be considered a boon, but for Sasha the chief result was that he often found himself at loose ends.

True, in the wake of his father’s temperamental health and subsequent retirement to the Continent, Sasha was now responsible for overseeing the family estate, but even that was managed easily enough, particularly with the assistance of an appropriate caretaker, an asset in which he had undoubtedly found in Semin. Even this work, in addition to his regular collection of hobbies – afternoons at the club, regular riding when the weather was fine, and his not infrequent visits to the fencing strip or boxing ring – were often insufficient to occupy his entire week, leaving him wanting for something more to which he might turn his attentions. His days in the Army had long ago confirmed that even now, in his retirement, when Sasha’s body was too long in want of an occupation, his temperament invariably turned restless.

It was perhaps this, then, a bounty of unclaimed time with little else to fill it, that caused him to glance a second time at the day’s newest letter, and the outlandish proposition contained therein.

On its face, the letter’s contents were laughably misguided, and although Sasha’s first instinct upon reading had been to set it aside permanently, he found himself nevertheless returning to it upon the completion of his necessary responses – to his mother and brother, primarily – retrieving the folded sheets from where they sat discarded on the edge of his secretaire.

It was a curious proposition indeed, one to do with the Earl of Backstrom – or rather, his son.

Although Sasha had never made the younger Mr. Backstrom’s acquaintance, he was at least familiar enough with his reputation to know that chief amongst his qualities was the quite publicly known fact that Mr. Backstrom was as notoriously uninterested in achieving an advantageous marriage as Sasha himself.

Something, then, must have upset the order of things. What that was he could not say, but it had clearly been enough to spur their shared associate, Mr. MacLellan, into action.

Lord Backstrom was now, it would seem, in active search of a husband for his eldest son.

When the opportunity had become known, Mr. MacLellan wrote, he found straight away that he would be remiss not to put forth Sasha’s name as a potential candidate, and would he be so good as to consider the match? MacLellan would be pleased to make the introductions himself, and the Backstroms were a fine family indeed, established and respected as well as a titled member of the peerage.

 _And as you yourself have no such standing at present,_ MacLellan wrote, would that not suit Sasha’s own interests neatly?

In fact, Sasha had no particular interests whatsoever in attaining status. His family was not titled into the peerage, true, and yet he could think of no way in which this was a particular detriment to his life.

Still, he found himself reading on again. 

_I believe your characters could be complementary, and truly there are ample benefits for both families to be found in such a match_ , MacLellan wrote on. _The Ovechkin estate would suitably supplement the Backstrom holdings, and likewise their good standing and connections would only serve as a boon to you._

Sasha suspected, then, that money was the motivating factor at play. Although they were a newer name, his familial estate and investments had been flourishing especially for the last decade, and it was not uncommon for established families such as the Backstroms, when faced with concerns pertaining to income, to arrange a match with a well-to-do, if largely untitled, family such as Sasha’s.

More than anything, the precise nature of the Backstrom’s situation intrigued him, although he supposed that as he had no intentions to accept the proposed arrangement, it was not _officially_ any concern of his.

Sasha sipped thoughtfully from his tea before beginning to sketch a reply to Mr. MacLellan, the required pleasantries at first before facing the meat of the matter:

 _Although you flatter me kindly in positing myself as a suitable candidate, I fear I am destined to disappoint your designs_ , he wrote consideringly. _I seek no spouse at present, and could therefore not in good conscience accept such a role, doomed as I would be to fail in it. However, should you nonetheless care to make an introduction between myself and Mr. Backstrom, I would be most amenable; as always, a friend of yours is likewise a friend of mine._

Sasha supposed that was the best he might offer and still be deemed adequately polite. And besides, although he was most certainly not in search of a husband, a new acquaintance was never amiss; Sasha relied so heavily upon his friends to fill his days with entertainment.

_Please do pass on my warm regards to your wife and children, and if you would be so bold as to inquire with the youngest Miss MacLellan whether she might be so kind as to enclose with your response another watercolor likeness of my team of draft horses. Her previous rendering was quite breathtaking, and during your last soiree she informed me that her talents continue to develop apace since achieving the esteemed age of eight years._

_Yours,_

_Captain A. Ovechkin_

On the whole, the affair was rather intriguing, if nevertheless irrelevant. He permitted himself a brief moment to mull it over further, and then shook his head, rising from his desk.

It was a beautiful day outside, and not one he was inclined to squander contemplating the social workings of the ton.

He would find Kuzya, Sasha resolved, and attempt to tear him away from his workshop. The far pond was newly stocked, and he could think of little else that would suit him so much as to while away the afternoon on its shores, testing his gamesmanship against Kuzya’s. Semin, perhaps, could even be persuaded to set aside his duties in the western wing of the estate and join them.

As he set about laying out a change in outfits, too impatient to ring for assistance, Sasha thought with a laugh that this was perhaps precisely such an impulse that made him unsuited for a marriage, well-matched or not. His abundance of energy would surely choke out any such partnership; the itch for an occupation in his hands was too stirring, the need for diversion too great, and any spouse would inevitably have little patience for such an unchecked supply of kinetic impulse, whether it was turned outward or upon their own person. He could not fathom a partner for whom this might be a satisfying arrangement, and likewise could not fathom a lifetime with a spouse who merely endured his presence rather than reveled in it.

No, Sasha was quite sure he was better designed for an indefinite bachelorhood, one interspersed with satisfying if ultimately unsustainable trysts. As he set his hat upon his head and strode out of the house into the afternoon sun, he found that fact suited him just fine.

-

The situation was quite put from his mind for the next week, at least until Sasha’s standing appointment at the sportsman’s club with Zhenya.

“No!” hooted Zhenya joyously – and, it could be discerned, perhaps not overly kindly – when Sasha relayed the letter and its contents to him before they took up their positions on opposite ends of the fencing strip. “You? A husband to Mr. Backstrom?” Zhenya’s countenance continued to disclose to Sasha that, owing to a superior knowledge of Mr. Backstrom’s character, he found the very prospect delightfully absurd.

“I do not think it is _so_ preposterous,” Sasha grumbled, making a minor adjustment to his chest padding. He felt, suddenly, quite ready to thrash Zhenya in their bout, an excess of energy demanding to be burnt out upon Zhenya’s form.

“Then you are even more a fool than I thought.” Zhenya declined, still, to don his mask, and Sasha was beginning to regret entering into this discussion with him. It was a sensation Sasha was long familiar with.

“On paper, it might be a fine match.” Sasha could not ascertain why, precisely, he felt the need to put forth such a protestation.

“Indeed not. And yet never have I encountered two gentleman less inclined to put aside their own bullheaded characters in the interest of making a _fine match_. You’d murder each other inside of a fortnight, I swear it.”

“You test my patience more than any man might, and yet you still stand.” He gestured for Zhenya to take his position and ready himself. “Now focus. I’ve an abundance of energy that I fully intend to exorcise upon your thick head.”

With the sound of the bell, they were off, parrying and thrusting. Zhenya was, admittedly, nearly a match for Sasha in most sport, fencing included, but luck was on Sasha’s side today; his prediction of a thrashing was accurate, and within the span of an hour they were both sweating with exertion, Zhenya’s barbs long ago reduced to mere grunts of effort. Only once, just before Sasha’s final point, had Zhenya murmured, “And he shall appear indeed,” casting his gaze past Sasha’s shoulder. 

Unable to make heads nor tails of the statement and presuming it to be an attempt at distraction, Sasha steadfastly ignored him.

“One more, scoundrel,” Zhenya demanded finally, but Sasha had already peeled away his own mask, shaking out the sweaty tangle of hair as he did so.

“No, no, old man, you’ve embarrassed yourself enough for one day.”

As they bowed to each other and began to pack away their arms, Sasha turned towards the entrance hall, and was immediately struck; a gentleman, unfamiliar to him, was leant against a wall, regarding Sasha carefully.

This in itself might not have given him such pause, excepting the fact that the gentleman was – well. Sasha’s first, instinctive thought was _a vision_.

Dressed neatly if perhaps stiffly in a charcoal coat and trousers, his cravat was only just so askew; nevertheless, he had an air of quiet competence around him, as if he had taken in the entirety of the room upon entering and sized its inhabitants at once. His broad shoulders belied a shorter, if sturdy stature, and moreso his features – untamed flaxen curls and a sharp, faintly amused expression around his mouth – were more captivating than any Sasha could recall encountering in all his years.

He grasped for a word to describe the man’s effect in sum, and could only arrive at: breathtaking.

“Zhenya,” Sasha asked carefully, holding the gentleman’s prolonged eye contact for another long moment before glancing away, swiping at the sweat on his own brow. They were, fortunately, just outside of a distance which would make his conversation audible, provided Sasha kept his voice unexcited. “The man against the far wall – do I know him from somewhere?”

“Do not jest,” Zhenya dismissed, moving to vacate the strip, and halting when he ascertained that Sasha was, in fact, doing no such thing. “Do you not know? Why, that is Mr. Backstrom himself.” 

“What?” Sasha asked, startled. “That is he? Here? Now?”

Zhenya tsked, his expression of surprise giving way to that long-familiar grin of smug satisfaction. “Indeed, both here _and_ now. Were you truly not aware?”

Sasha merely shook his head. “We – have never had the occasion to… I should say, I--” The man – Mr. Backstrom, if Zhenya could be believed, still gazed upon Sasha, quite unabashedly. “We have not met,” he finished lamely, fairly undone by the attention.

“Well, if you are able to find your tongue, I might make an introduction between the two of you immediately.”

“No, no, I could not,” Sasha said hastily, gesturing down at his own disheveled appearance, hoping that was a suitable rationale; he preferred not to admit to anyone, Zhenya least of all, how inexplicably struck he found himself by Mr. Backstrom.

If, in fact, that was truly who he was. It was not outside the realm of possibility that Zhenya had seized upon another opportunity to tease him.

“Surely, though,” Sasha said, furrowing his brow, rapier forgotten at his side even as the next pair made impatient motions beside them to take up Sasha and Zhenya’s spot. “You are quite certain that is him?”

Zhenya’s patience must have begun to wear thin at Sasha’s spluttering, his tone growing weary. “Sanya, the man and I have met a half dozen times at least. I feel quite sure I am capable of recognizing him.”

“But he is – I was not aware! Zhenya, he’s _lovely_.” 

And, well. He had had no intention of voicing _that_ particular thought, but there it was. He braced himself for another boom of laughter from Zhenya, and was surprised when it failed to arrive. Rather, Zhenya merely turned a perplexed expression upon Sasha.

“I… suppose,” he responded mildly, clearly unable to agree freely and fully. “He is an accomplished enough sportsman, at least.”

“It is clear,” Sasha praised, attempting to draw his eyes from not only the broad span of Mr. Backstrom’s shoulders, evident even in his morning coat, but the delicate, almost humorously displeased moue of his mouth. “He is finely made indeed.”

He could not have heard Sasha’s quiet assessment, not at their distance, but at that moment Mr. Backstrom nodded ever so slightly, and then turned, drifting off into the next salon.

That, at least, was enough to shake Sasha from his befuddlement. In a rush, he gathered their equipment without waiting for the attendant, eager once more for an occupation.

“‘Finely made,’” Zhenya repeated with a tone of disbelief, not bothering to assist Sasha with their weapons and miscellany. “Sanya, I must admit, I have known you these nearly thirty years now and still I can make neither heads nor tails of you.”

“Do you disagree?” Sasha did not _mean_ to infuse the question with such challenge, but nevertheless he failed to comprehend how one could gaze upon Mr. Backstrom and not immediately be taken by everything about him. If perhaps not the most classically handsome man Sasha had ever espied, he was surely the most… magnetic.

“I fear to answer honestly lest you run me through,” Zhenya said, gesturing to his own unprotected chest and then Sasha’s rapier. “You look positively frenzied. Come, wash off your shock and you may buy me a drink until your wits regain you.”

-

After dutifully providing drinks and a meal for both himself and Zhenya, Sasha rejoined Semin for the voyage home, and attempted to put this disorienting fact of Mr. Backstrom’s presence from him mind.

Away from his his gaze, at least, Sasha found it a bit easier to accomplish. Mr. Backstrom had no doubt a sheen about him, but with a suitable distance between them, Sasha could better believe he had merely invented – or at the very least, exaggerated – the sense of bewitchment that had overtaken him. He had not, in all his years, encountered anyone so immediately enchanting; what was like the likelihood that this stranger would be any true exception to that rule? Likely Sasha had simply fallen under a potent confluence of a chance encounter and a surprising proposal, and in the process his nerves had come confused.

And in any case, what matter was it to Sasha? It was not if he intended to accept the proposal to wed Mr. Backstrom; it would, therefore, be foolishness of the highest order to occupy the remainder of the day reflecting on a curl of hair tucked behind an ear, or the deliberate angle of a wrist, no matter how handily they had ensnared his attention.

He would, he resolved once more, put the entire curious matter of Mr. Backstrom from his mind.

Of course, then, upon vowing so, Sasha was thus doomed to find Mr. MacLellan’s response waiting on the tray upon their return, and despite his resolution of mere moments ago, paused in the hall to glance it over.

_Captain Ovechkin,_

_Your prompt response is much appreciated, although I must own to a small sense of disappointment at its contents – although you of course know best your own path and destiny, I am earnest when I say that I do believe an engagement with Mr. Backstrom could suit both parties impeccably. Nevertheless, I am obliged by your consideration of the matter, and would be glad to arrange your meeting with Mr. Backstrom purely as acquaintances if you are still amenable; if your man would be so good as to respond with availability, etc. etc._

_At your service,_

_MacLellan_

_Post-script: The youngest Miss MacLellan wishes me to inform you that her portrait shall be completed within the fortnight, and hopes you will be so gracious as to join us for dinner so that you might receive it directly._

Despite having proposed the informal meeting himself, Sasha found himself unsure, now, whether that might be the best course of action – _only_ , he avowed to himself, because it flew contrary to his resolution to put Mr. Backstrom aside, an endeavor he had already rather floundered at.

Sasha shook his head as if to dislodge his illogical thoughts, and traced Semin’s earlier path to the back of the house where he found him in a disused parlor, long colonized by Semin as his own personal study, settling in front of his desk.

“I know I am great company, Sasha, but I can scarcely set about managing the books if you refuse to give me a moment’s peace with which to do so,” Semin said dryly, failing to look up until Sasha shook the letter noisily at him. “Yes?”

“Would I be a greater fool to accept, or to decline?” he asked Semin, upon appraising him of the pertinent aspects of the proposed meeting.

Semin merely looked hard at him, and then huffed out a rude laugh before turning his attentions back to the ledger before him.

“I assure you, my friend, that you will remain ever the fool regardless of your decision. Honestly, this aflutter over a simple visit, what has come over you? Unless you have changed your mind regarding the proposed arrangement, it is a meeting and meal, nothing more. Now leave me be, you have distracted me enough for one day.”

Sasha opened his mouth to protest, and found he could not – it _was_ preposterous for him to be at such loose ends over so simple a matter.

“I will write on your behalf to arrange it for next week, as it would be quite gauche to decline your own invitation. Now go find Kuzya and harangue him,” Semin suggested as Sasha grasped for a response that might save face. “He’s been cooped up in that dreadful workshop too long; you can go drive each other mad outdoors.”

“I – all right,” Sasha agreed; he may have been losing his mind, but he could recognize the value in that plan. Kuzya and a brisk outing – perhaps towards the far fields – would surely shake loose whatever madness was presently enveloping him.

“You are welcome, Sasha; it is ever my pleasure to serve as the only party with their wits about them in this household,” Semin called teasingly as Sasha retreated, a rude gesture and a laugh his only retort.

-

The rest of the week passed in a familiar wash, the weather remarkably fine, so that Sasha found himself out of doors from nearly sunup to sundown each day. By the time the day of his arranged meeting with Mr. Backstrom had arrived, Sasha felt very nearly himself again – or rather, just until the moment he was escorted into the dining room of the local inn and found himself once again face to face with Mr. Backstrom, although this time at a much nearer distance.

Sasha had braced himself to meet a mere mortal, rather than the curiously breathtaking creature of his memories that was surely down to invention; he had convinced himself that he would no doubt find, upon their second encounter, that his recollection of glimpsing Mr. Backstrom across the sports hall would be proven overly fraught, imbued with extraneous meaning in hindsight rather than representing a true likeness.

Mr. Backstrom’s presence, however, was no less affecting on second glance; he rather glowed in the candlelight of the dining-room.

Mr. Backstrom did not rise to greet him as he approached, but nodded with a small smile of acknowledgment.

“Captain Ovechkin,” he said as Sasha settled himself into the vacant chair, feeling not for the first time that he was rather oversized for the furniture available to him.

Mr. Backstrom’s voice was, Sasha thought, a perfect match to his countenance; its softness belied an undercurrent of strength and composure, an attractive lilt to it that was pleasing in a way Sasha could not precisely name.

“Mr. Backstrom,” he replied, drawing upon his reserves of polished ease. If he did not feel confident in his ability to remain privately unaffected by Mr. Backstrom, he was at least sure he was practiced enough in good manners and easy conversation to disguise it. “It is a pleasure indeed to finally make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise; at long last a face to match the name.”

If Mr. Backstrom recognized Sasha from the sports hall, then, he did not mean to make it known.

At his elbow, the attendant coughed slightly, and Sasha gestured for him to pour them both their wine.

“I fear our meeting may disappoint grander designs,” Sasha said once the attendant had slipped away. “MacLellan has, no doubt, kept you apprised of my response?”

“Quite so,” Mr. Backstrom agreed, and if he was disappointed he once again did not make it known. On the contrary, his smile towards Sasha was small, but warm.

“I feel compelled to apologize,” Sasha said with a rueful smile in return. “I have not yet dined with an acquaintance after declining their proposal, and am therefore unsure of the proper conventions.”

“It was really more a proposal of a proposal,” Mr. Backstrom offered, not unkindly, but with an air of amusement. “Therefore, I think, no apologies are necessary, and we are at our leisure to enjoy our meal.”

Sasha’s smile only grew; he felt at once that Mr. Backstrom could easily prove to be, if not his future husband, then a well-matched friend.

“Good,” he said, settling back in his chair as best he could. “Then I shall not bother, and we can proceed directly to becoming fast friends.”

Sasha was aware that some found his enthusiasm off-putting, but Mr. Backstrom did not seem to number among them; he returned Sasha’s smile with a nod, and raised his glass slightly. “Perhaps an even more valuable asset than a husband,” he offered.

“Indeed – I confess, I was forewarned we are of a like mind on that matter.” Sasha was surprised to find how much this apparent truth pleased him, and was encouraged to press for more information. “Could I be so bold, then, as to ask; why do you now seek a husband? Or at least, accommodate your father’s search.”

Mr. Backstrom looked at him steadily, and then dropped his gaze to his glass, twisting it thoughtfully in his competent-seeming hands. Sasha could practically watch him selecting his words precisely, and it was a long moment before Mr. Backstrom looked up again to reply.

“My youngest brother, Kristoffer, is recently wed,” he finally said.

“Indeed? My congratulations – I was not aware.”

“Nor would you be,” Mr. Backstrom demurred, that bewilderingly charming quirk appearing upon his lips. “It was kept quite silent, at my father’s insistence.”

“Ah,” Sasha said, comprehending at once the thrust if not the finer details. “Say no more, if the matter is private–”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Backstrom said. “ _Quite_ quiet is not _entirely_ quiet, and in any case you would have been made aware had you been agreeable to this match.” He quirked his fingers just so, as if to preface the tale. “Kristoffer’s now-wife was, previously, a lady’s maid in my mother’s employ,” he explained carefully.

If he found the statement distasteful, he did not reveal so in his speech or expression.

Sasha nodded as the picture became, in fits, more complete.

“I was aware of their entanglement, and in fact was an accomplice to it. For a number of years I willingly covered their tracks as they courted; they are more genuinely in love than any two I have ever met, and I am not inclined to begrudge that rarity to any man or woman. Regardless of their respective stations.”

He said the last bit with a firmness bordering upon a challenge, and Sasha could easily discern why; it was a scandalous attitude to take, such flagrant disregard for propriety and the strict delineation between members of the quality and those destined to serve them. Sasha knew all too well how expressing such disregard could quickly undermine one’s own standing if vocalized too loudly or too often.

“Their relationship might have continued with a blind eye turned towards it, excepting that she found herself with child. Kristoffer would not disavow them when it was revealed, and instead married her. My father devoted an enormous sum of money to quieting the scandal as best he might, propping up a meaningless title for her and paying off any who were too familiar with the true nature of the situation, but still the talk persists.” The disapproving downturn of his mouth revealed all he felt about the matter. 

“So you can see why an advantageous match on my part might deflect attention,” he concluded after a pause. “It would reaffirm our good standing, and if it came with a windfall to make up for my father’s losses, so much the better.” He took a long sip from his wine, his throat working elegantly in a manner that distracted Sasha quite effectively.

“Plus, I suppose he envisions this a fitting punishment for me, given that I was not only aware of their relationship but abetted it.” He gave a grim laugh at this, as if the idea was preposterous.

“Is it not?” Sasha dared to ask.

Mr. Backstrom’s expression resolved. “Any action that protects my brother and his family only suits my own desires. My father is a foolish man to imagine otherwise.”

He sat back, then, clearly at the conclusion of his tale. He drank again, and held Sasha’s gaze steadily; it was enough to shove Sasha off his composure once more.

“You speak quite freely,” he acknowledged, at once surprised and admiring.

Mr. Backstrom shrugged his shoulders, an action that was at once casual and defiant. “Why should I do otherwise? Despite convention, I find no fault with my brother’s actions, and therefore no reason to obfuscate the facts of the matter.”

“Indeed,” Sasha said thoughtfully, refilling both of their cups in turn before continuing. “Yet still, I admit, I am surprised to find you so amenable to this scheme.” Mr. Backstrom raised his eyebrows ever so slightly in a manner that seemed merely curious, rather than offended, and nodded Sasha on. “Respectfully, my knowledge of your reputation is limited chiefly to an understanding that you are disinclined towards matrimony.”

Mr. Backstrom again shrugged his shoulders, and Sasha was forced to tamp down on the rush of interest the motion on Mr. Backstrom’s frame effected upon him. He was indeed as finely made as he had seemed in the club, a fact that was even more evident at a close distance. The softness of his countenance, the gentle curl of his hair – they only served to underscore by contrast the compact power contained in his stature.

“There has been little draw for me in that endeavor until now,” Mr. Backstrom said simply. “However, as I mentioned, I can find no more worthy cause than ensuring the security and happiness of my brother and his family.”

“And so you agreed to your father’s machinations,” Sasha concluded, nodding. “I suppose you could not be so moved to do so except under your own volition.” Even having spent so little time in Mr. Backstrom’s company, he could easily tell that the man’s nature was one of quiet assurance and deep-running resolve.

“The idea was chiefly mine,” Mr. Backstrom admitted, that magnetic grin twisting the edge of his mouth again. “The trick was merely to convince my father it was his invention.”

Sasha laughed abruptly. “Mr. Backstrom, I must own to admiring your seemingly effortless control of all around you.”

Mr. Backstrom’s please expression only redoubled at this.

“Surely, though, you could not leave the hunt entirely to your father – what, then, were your own stipulations for such a search?” Sasha did not voice his confidence that Mr. Backstrom must have had such safeguards in place, as composed and competent as he seemed; nor his own desire to ascertain how he himself fit into them.

“Chiefly, that I would not disguise the facts of the arrangement,” Mr. Backstrom said, “and I would not agree to any spouse who would suffer from our match in any capacity; in fact, who would not find themselves with at least some advantage from it.”

“That is all?” Sasha could not keep the surprise from his voice. There was nothing in such a disclaimer concerning _Mr. Backstrom’s_ desires for his partner, their qualities or characteristics – only his concerns for the well-being of a future, undiscovered fiancé.

“Well,” Mr. Backstrom admitted with an impish expression, “a pleasant enough face and character, I suppose. And it would not be amiss if they were someone with whom I might hold a conversation without feeling compelled to hit my head upon the nearest wall.”

Sasha laughed again, and again too loud, a display which earned him a sideways glance from several more restrained tables. Sasha ignored them all. “I – you surprise me, Mr. Backstrom,” he admitted, unable to keep the tinge of awe from his voice.

This, unexpectedly, caused Mr. Backstrom to color, a fine blush rising on his cheeks just as they were interrupted by the attendant’s return, this time bearing their meals.

Once the attendant had retreated, Sasha could not help but press. “And I fit these criteria?”

Mr. Backstrom glanced up; the lingering trace of a flush remained upon his features, but he did not look away, holding Sasha’s gaze steadily. “I suppose you do.”

The conversation turned, then, to more general matters; the fine weather, a handful of mutual acquaintances, and so on. Mr. Backstrom recalled that his family had, in the distant past, visited the Ovechkin estate, although only when he was too young to have retained any but the sketchiest details as an adult. He revealed himself to be especially fond of riding, and Sasha detailed the horses he kept in his stable, a subject Mr. Backstrom took a sharp interest in. The flow of conversation was easy and natural, more than sufficient to see them through their meal. Reluctant to part, Sasha was quietly pleased as they subsequently retired to a quiet parlor for their brandy, continuing their talk from their armchairs positioned rather close to one another in front of the fireplace.

Although he had anticipated an amiable enough meeting, Sasha was nevertheless surprised by the depth of the pleasure he took from Mr. Backstrom’s company. Rather than an introduction between strangers, it felt more akin to an afternoon spent with Kuzya or Semin, or perhap even Zhenya when he was in a particularly agreeable mood; with the space of a few hours, Sasha was more at ease with Mr. Backstrom than he often found himself with others he had been acquainted with for years. 

Perhaps it was this – or perhaps the drink – that prompted his thoughts to flow curiously, looping back to the original nature of his convergence with Mr. Backstrom, to even that first letter from MacLellan. The very notion that had initially seemed so preposterous suddenly felt… if not reasonable, then at least more explicable. Within grasp of possibility, even.

There was a lengthy enough pause that Sasha realized he had entirely missed what Mr. Backstrom was saying, something which clearly required a response.

“I apologize,” Sasha owned. “I have been dreadfully impolite; my mind was elsewhere just now.”

Mr. Backstrom seemed unbothered. “On what matter?” he asked curiously.

“If I am honest, the matter of our introduction.” Sasha rearranged himself, crossing an ankle over one knee as he sought out the proper framing of the topic. “When MacLellan suggested the match,” he began carefully, “I gave it very little consideration – I am not in the market for marriage, you see.”

Mr. Backstrom nodded, evidently not at all insulted by this.

“And yet I now cannot help myself from wondering,” Sasha said slowly, feeling that his mind was at once outpacing itself and desperately lagging behind. “If… merely as speculation, of course, but _if_ we had made such an arrangement… if I–” He felt himself trailing off a bit uselessly.

“If you were to marry me,” Mr. Backstrom prompted, soft and steady.

“How would that go?” Sasha found himself, suddenly, in need of a fixed mental image he might attach to the notion.

“Well,” Mr. Backstrom said, swirling the remaining brandy in his snifter. That careful smile reappeared, and Sasha was chagrined to find that he rather treasured its presence. “I suppose there would be a wedding. We would cohabitate at your home. Beyond that, the details become hazy – I have never married, you know. I am hardly an expert in the matter.” He paused, and gave further consideration. “I suspect we would become friends.”

And that – well. Sasha was jarred by how simple it sounded, put like that.

He sat with that for a long, companionable moment, Mr. Backstrom seemingly content to leave him to his thoughts, the crackle of the fire the only interruption.

“I fear that as my husband you would find your new standing fairly beneath what you are accustomed to,” Sasha said eventually, smiling and spreading his hands slightly. The Ovechkin name was respected, but still a great distance from membership amongst the peerage. He had long ago found it best to face these truths of society face on; it was an approach that he knew made many among the ton uncomfortable, but better to bring it to light than let it fester belowground.

“Unimportant,” Mr. Backstrom dismissed with the wave of a hand. “As I’ve said, I put little stock in such nonsense.”

“And you would live at my estate?”

Mr. Backstrom’s expression shifted minutely. “Yes. As you might imagine, my father and I are equally eager for me to depart from the family home.”

“Ah,” Sasha replied.

“Captain,” Mr. Backstrom replied, setting aside his snifter carefully and leaning forward just slightly. “I believe you understand me preternaturally, the nature of my schemes and of my character both. I do not wish to mislead – it would be a great service to me, if you were to reconsider your decision, and I think we could make a neat pair. It is a rarity to encounter one seemingly so like-minded.”

He said it with such ease, such lack of self-consciousness that the peculiar rhythm of Sasha’s heartbeat reappeared; perhaps it was simply impossible to remain unaffected by Mr. Backstrom in some capacity.

“I feel the same,” he admitted, trying to imbue a similar confidence to his words.

“I do not think, then, that I shall encounter a better suited partner for what I seek. Nevertheless, I would not accept you as my husband if you had reservations on the matter. Given your previous refusal, I would simply ask that you reflect further before amending your decision, if indeed you have any inclination to do so.”

With that he drained the remainder of his brandy, and smiled again so pleasingly that Sasha couldn’t have objected to being so efficiently managed even if he was inclined to do so – and he found he was not.

“I fear I have kept you too long,” Mr. Backstrom said, rising. Sasha stood with him, and on impulse reached out to take Mr. Backstrom’s hand. He meant to shake it, but instead found himself merely grasping it in his, the skin warm and soft; if there was any movement or sound from the parlor around them, it slipped away entirely in that moment.

“It has been a great pleasure,” he said, not bothering to disguise the earnestness from his tone. “I – I will do you as you asked, and reflect further. Perhaps I might write to you?”

“I suppose you might,” Mr. Backstrom acquiesced; he smiled still, and it was a long moment before Sasha could bring himself to drop his hand.

-

The carriage ride home passed in a daze, Sasha so deep in reflection that he found himself surprised to arrive at his own front door. The remainder of the day, from dinner and a distracted hand of cards with Semin and Kuzya all the way through his retirement to his chambers, passed in a similarly foggy manner. Sasha found himself adrift in his thoughts, a tangle of Mr. Backstrom’s undeniable effect on him and the creeping sensation that Sasha was poised on the edge of a precipice, on the verge of doing something exhilarating and potentially beyond sanity.

In the morning he rose with a newfound sense of purpose and resolve; he had not reached any particular decision, per se, but was determined to shake off yesterday’s daze and approach the matter with both reason and action.

To that end, he began to compose the promised letter before he even called for Semin’s assistance in dressing.

_Mr. Backstrom,_

_I must confess that I find myself in the unlikely position of considering your proposition anew, despite having previously declined it so readily. I have so long resolved myself to the knowledge that if I was not, as I suspected, destined to marry out of a love match, then nothing would move me towards matrimony. And yet our meeting has given rise to the lingering notion that I have been incorrect in that assessment; indeed, I suspect our partnership might be, if not the marriage of my imagination, then the one most satisfyingly true to life._

_I worry, though, having so long labored under the conceit of my indefinite bachelorhood that should I accept your proposal, I would prove an unworthy husband. I do not know how to reconcile this concern with my firm belief that you deserve only the finest quality and character in a spouse._

_It is a quandary that warrants no response from you, for it is a matter solely of my own perspective; nevertheless, you so kindly invited me to write you, and I felt compelled to let you know the contents of both my head and my heart._

_Yours,_

_Captain O._

It was perhaps not the most composed nor eloquent note, but it was honest, and Sasha suspected that would be the thing most well-received by Mr. Backstrom; he sent it off with Semin with no small thrill, one borne both from nerves and anticipation.

Mr. Backstrom’s reply arrived just following the completion of a leisurely breakfast, and Sasha took it into his study so that he might devote his attention to it entirely.

_Captain Ovechkin,_

_My feelings remain unchanged; however, I would not, as I said, permit you to enter into an agreement with any reservations clouding you._

_Perhaps it would allay your concerns if you were to voice them to me; I cannot promise I may provide any answers, but I have found that to put down to words the nebulous worries of an uneasy mind is often to cast them in a new light._

_At your service,_

_Backstrom_

Thus began a flurry of notes, “letters” being too generous a description of their contents; Sasha found himself scribbling down every stray concern and thought that flitted into his head on whatever scrap of parchment he could find, and Mr. Backstrom responded straight away with something light and glib, and yet somehow comforting.

 _I fear I am at once restless and overly-fixated_ , Sasha wrote at one point, _and any spouse of mine would be at risk of enduring my attentions too deeply and yet too infrequently, surely a chafing prospect_.

 _If you were to marry someone with a paltry sense of selfhood, perhaps,_ came Mr. Backstrom’s answer. _I would therefore suggest that you not marry anyone so weak-minded._

The response drew a curved, quiet smile of pleasure across Sasha’s features.

 _Even worse, I am told I am a perilously incompetent dance partner_ , he warned in his next note, scrawled before a trip to the stables. A response arrived within the hour.

_An accomplished sportsman such as yourself must surely be teachable; perhaps you lack only the proper partner?_

On it went, until Semin was brushing the shoulders of his coat before dinner, and upon Sasha’s production of his latest note, he sighed meaningfully.

“Perhaps, Sasha, you might consider condensing your responses into one comprehensive missive, longer in length than a single sentence. It would be a kindness to your humble and weary servants who are even as we speak permanently rutting the road to the Backstrom lands with such frequent trips.”

Sasha crumpled a discarded draft left astray on his secretaire and heaved it at Semin’s head.

He considered the advice, however, and that night sat in his dressing gown at the small desk within his bedchambers, resolved to reflect more deeply on his thoughts and to subsequently put them into words – cogent ones, at that – as best he might.

The fact of the matter was, he was entirely taken with Mr. Backstrom. Not only his arresting aura, or his fine appearance, which had so instantly overcome Sasha; no, it was nearly everything about him, from the manner in which he spoke and moved to the deep current of loyalty and the firm sense of self that emanated from him in all he did.

Sasha had, of course, imagined the creature that might tempt him from bachelorhood, if indeed they existed – the one whom he might happily wed in an indistinct future. Mr. Backstrom did not match with any previous renderings, and yet now, was all Sasha could picture.

He thought, long and carefully, about his future on its current path: free, unobstructed, and largely without purpose.

He then imagined the diverging path: one that was at once unexpected, alluring, and that called to Sasha clear as a bell.

With an unnatural sense of calm and clarity, he sat to write his final letter.

_Mr. Backstrom,_

_You have been so good as to endure my scattershot notes and disconnected worries, all of which you received with grace and humor. I hope you will forgive me if this letter fails to live up to your patience and intellect._

_I will not repeat my own previously voiced concerns on the topic of marriage; I will say only that our meeting has utterly shifted my long-held opinion. In envisioning the remainder of my life, I find now that my previous resolve of solitude rings hollow; rather, in making your acquaintance I can think of little more rewarding than to match your candor and kindness. Your devotion to your family and strength of character, regardless of public opinion, seems now to me the best use of a lifetime._

_I am relieved to hear that you believe a great friendship and partnership could grow between us, because it reconfirms precisely that which I felt I knew intrinsically from the moment we met. If you would have me, then, I would be honored to accept your proposal, and will remain eternally yours and at your service,_

_Captain Alexander Ovechkin_

-

Mr. Backstrom’s reply came halfway through Sasha’s breakfast the next day, his mouth half full of boiled egg as he opened it to reveal the sole line:

_If we are to be married, you ought to accustom yourself to addressing me by my Christian name._

_Yours,_

_Nicklas_

-

Zhenya laughed himself sick upon learning of Sasha’s decision, forfeiting their arranged shooting outing in favor of sitting down upon a fallen log, bracing his arms on his knees as he gave himself over to great, juddering fits of hysteria.

Sasha thought, rather sourly, that Zhenya was in little position to mock the romantic entanglements of others, but nonetheless escorted him back to the Malkin estate’s library where they opened a bottle of fine Madeira, Zhenya shaking his head mirthfully every few minutes or so.

Kuzya and Semin reacted, if not similarly, then similar to their respective characters. “Who?” Kuzya asked distractedly, glancing up from whatever he was scribbling in a small notebook over tea. “I do not think I know him. Look here, do you think there’s anything to this sketch?”

Whatever he was designing, Sasha could make neither heads nor tails of, although he was fairly sure it would be noisy and prone to explosions.

Semin raised his glass and offered congratulations. “And the staff of your households rejoice, I presume; much easier to deliver love notes across a single home rather than an entire county.”

“Love notes my eye,” Sasha replied genially, gesturing with a fork. “It is a mutually agreeable situation, not a romantic entanglement. Nicklas will be a great friend to me, and nothing more.”

Semin appeared unconvinced. “Nicklas, eh,” he merely repeated, smirking disbelievingly.

“What, I should call my fiancé Mr. Backstrom?” And from there it devolved into their typical bickering, comforting and familiar.

They were Sasha’s only two guests, the following week, as he greeted Mr. Backstrom – _Nicklas_ – on a sunny morning outside the gates of the local churchyard, his parents and Misha still unable to make the journey from the Continent. They had sent their congratulations and best wishes, a discernable note of relief woven through his mother’s letter.

Nicklas’ parents, too, were absent; he was attended instead by a young couple with a babe in arms, clearly Kristoffer and his family, and a younger gentleman with fine features and a mop of curly hair that Sasha did not recognize.

He paid little attention to them, though, his eyes drawn immediately to Nicklas at the expense of anyone else present. 

“Nicklas,” he said as he approached, taking care not to sound breathless or overly smitten. It was no paltry task, however; Nicklas, although standing a bit uneasily, was even then a breathtaking sight, dressed in a finely fitted gray coat and aglow in the morning sun.

“Alex,” Nicklas responded, direct and soft. He offered his hand, and Sasha grasped it gently for a long moment; he only dropped it when one of the others around them coughed and scuffed the dirt with a toe of a boot, reminding Sasha that they were not the only two in the world.

“My brother, Kristoffer,” Nicklas introduced upon stepping back, gesturing to the gentleman, and Sasha offered the man his hand.

“It is good to finally meet you,” Sasha said, hoping that would adequately address the unspoken truth – that Kristoffer was by and large the reason they all stood here, just outside the small chapel. “All of you.” He then extended his hand to Kristoffer’s wife, a pretty woman in a dress for riding and Hessians, and then to the cherubic baby in her arms. “My own brother resides so far afield; I am glad to gain a family nearer to home.”

“And my friend, Mr. Andre Burakovsky,” Nicklas continued. Sasha greeted the younger man next, and noted how his eyes seemed to rake over not only Sasha himself but both Semin and Kuzya behind him, seemingly of their own accord. He held back laughter as best he could; he could tell Mr. Burakovsky’s sort straight away, he believed – the sort that would likely woo a potted plant if no other opportunities presented themselves. Sasha was fond of him already. 

Semin and Kuzya made their introductions, Semin grinning dangerously as they did so.

“It is indeed a shock to escort dear Sasha to his own wedding,” Semin said slyly. “Mr. Backstrom, you must be an uncommon sort to tempt him from his self-prescribed path of solitude.”

“I do not know about that. The circumstances are uncommon indeed,” Nicklas agreed, and behind him, Kristoffer snorted with laughter. “Uncommon and yet quite welcome, I should say.”

“I suppose we are both as surprised as any,” Sasha agreed with good humor. “And now, unless you care to add anything else, Semin, I believe we are due inside.”

Their small party proceeded towards the chapel, Nicklas and Sasha falling towards the back of the group. Just before they reached the wooden doors, Sasha put a hand to Nicklas’ wrist, pausing him as he reached down to snap a small spray of white wildflowers from where they grew alongside the path.

“Here,” he offered, tucking them into the buttonhole of Nicklas’ jacket.

Nicklas’ expression was at first puzzled, and then softened into something else. “I – thank you,” he said, sounding as if the small gesture was the only aspect of the morning’s proceedings he struggled to comprehend.

Sasha only nodded, offering his arm and leading Nicklas inside.

From there, the work of sealing a marriage took mere moments: Nicklas and Sasha repeating the priest’s words in turn, exchanging their rings, and signing the ledger. Sasha supposed, all told, the affair occupied fewer than five minutes, and then he was leaning in to press a chaste kiss against the rise of Nicklas’ cheekbones.

And just like that, Sasha found himself in possession of a husband.

-

It was only after the others had departed – Kristoffer’s family and Mr. Burakovsky returning to the Backstrom estate, and Kuzya and Semin making for town (Semin protested the very notion of sharing the rest of the day with newlyweds) – that Sasha began to feel unsure of his footing. He had no regrets, to be sure, and every return to the idea that the man beside him was now his _husband_ only echoed pleasingly in his chest, but as they took their places in Sasha’s carriage for their return to the estate, he was struck but the realization that he did not know precisely what came next.

If Nicklas was equally unnerved, however, he did not display it, seemingly content to gaze at the countryside as it passed, commenting occasionally on the fine weather and other such neutral topics.

It had the effect of mostly settling Sasha, at least until they turned down the drive to the Ovechkin estate.

“Do you find it suitable?” Sasha asked as they approached, a bit nervous. At once he recognized it as a fool’s question, for Nicklas could scarcely have formed an opinion on his future home glimpsed from a carriage.

It was only – he did so want to find it pleased Nicklas, even with the knowledge that there was not much to be done if it did not.

In any case, Nicklas agreed that he did, and if it was a response borne only out of politeness, he disguised it with the curious and intent way he examined the manor as they approached it.

“There is a rumor, you know,” Nicklas said carefully, the barest hint of humor playing across his features. “Regarding your estate.”

“Indeed?” Sasha was not, categorically, surprised. He was, generally speaking, rather a magnet for rumors.

“That it is haunted,” Nicklas replied, in a way that seemed to imply the thought pleased him.

“Ah, yes. That,” Sasha said, and laughed more heartily than he meant to. Of all the rumors for Nicklas to seize upon, Sasha was delighted to find that _this_ was the one. He was well aware of the rumblings about town, and in fact was guilty of encouraging them from time to time.

The house itself was rather haphazard, a piecemeal accumulation of architectural styles and modes that had sprung up around the original framework, an abbey dating back centuries at least. It was rather like a quilt that did not quite mesh, to degree that admittedly many found disquieting, and Sasha was tremendously fond of it.

Likewise, excepting the working and small ornamental gardens, Sasha preferred to allow the grounds to manage their own affairs. The resulting effect was largely one of freeform chaos, quite apart from his nearest neighbors’ neatly manicured acreage, and such that it was plausible to imagine a ghast or spirit might feel quite at home. It suited Sasha to the letter.

“I myself have not witnessed such things,” he said, happy to relocate familiar grounds, “although certainly there are odd – noises, at night. Inexplicable. A sense of intrigue.”

He did not clarify that typically Kuzya, overnighting in his borrowed attic laboratory as he was wont to do, was the source of such noises.

“Does the possibility alarm you?” he asked Nicklas, unable to stop the teasing grin from consuming his features and voice both.

“If such spirits are present, I suspect they are no match for me,” he responded quite simply.

Sasha was reminded, rather viscerally, of just how appealing he found Nicklas.

Fortunately their arrival was imminent, and they were swept up in the process of introducing Nicklas to footman and the rest of the staff before launching into a tour of the manor house, an engrossing enough task that left Sasha no opportunity to further reflect on the curious sensation Nicklas engendered in him.

The history of the house had been instilled effectively into Sasha since his boyhood, and he skimmed through the most interesting details as he escorted Nicklas from room to room – these guest quarters where so-and-so once stayed, the parlor his mother had favored because of its fine view in the morning, this or that portrait of a notable Ovechkin family member. Sasha found himself restraining the impulse to exaggerate in the interest of making the tour more compelling, and began to gloss over the standard monologue – he doubted, somehow, that Nicklas would be tremendously impressed to learn the storied history of the silver.

In fact, although Nicklas nodded politely through the typical tour, his interest was piqued in unexpected places; the creaky east wing attic and corridor haunted by Kuzya, for whatever reason, clearly appealed to him, as did the kitchens, a portrait of Sasha and Misha from their boyhood, and above all, Sasha’s personal library.

“There is a grander collection downstairs,” Sasha disclaimed from the threshold; his ‘library’ was little more than a study off his rooms and bedchamber, cozier and more inhabited than the formal library used chiefly to receive visitors, scattered here and there with loose volumes gone unshelved and spare notes Sasha had jotted down to himself and then forgotten. “These are merely the volumes that suit me and my own particular interests.”

“May I?” Nicklas asked, nodding his head slightly, clearly unwilling to enter without Sasha’s permission.

“Of course,” he said earnestly. “You are welcome anywhere in this house – it is _your_ home.”

Nicklas gave him a long and appraising – and, perhaps, Sasha might be permitted to believe, pleased – look, and then entered, tilting his head to read the books’ spines and carefully running his fingertips over the shelves, the globe on a side table, a sheaf of blank writing paper.

Sasha felt curiously as if he himself, rather than merely the room, was being inspected.

That ought not have sat so pleasantly in his chest, and yet it did.

“You will have to show me to the main library,” Nicklas said eventually. “But I think I shall prefer this one regardless. It feels…” He considered. “Lived-in.”

“I suppose that is a flattering way to say it is a mess,” Sasha said, trying to restrain his smile.

“Well.” Nicklas conspicuously did not disagree, but smiled in return. “Anything well-loved must always be so.”

Against all reason, this mild statement caused Sasha to nearly blush. At each turn, he realized, Nicklas continued to affect him in new and surprising ways – although he was so steadily himself, unaltered in his composure and manner of speaking, it seemed to again and again strike Sasha anew just what a rare creature Nicklas truly was.

“You are more than welcome to further that mess, then, at any time,” he said, and then pushed away from the doorframe. “Come. We will see the rest of the western wing.”

Nicklas followed.

Their turn about the house consumed the remainder of the day, and Sasha strategically concluded it at the rooms he had had Semin make up for Nicklas to use as his own, presuming he must be more than ready for a moment of solitude. His cases had already been delivered, and even in that small action the rooms were becoming imbued with the unusual sense that there was another living creature within the estate’s walls. Sasha much prefered it that way.

“I hope you will find yourself at home,” he explained as Nicklas appraised them with a careful eye. “Anything that does not suit you, you need only to alert myself or Semin and we will remedy it at once.” 

“I’m quite sure I will be fine, Alex,” Nicklas demurred, and the sound of his own name in Nicklas’ mouth was enough to throw Sasha entirely off balance.

“Of course. I am sure the day has been fatiguing, so I will leave you to your privacy,” Sasha offered. “If you care to join me for dinner please do not hesitate – I would welcome the company – but I can arrange a tray to be sent up as well. Whatever you desire.”

“Alex,” Nicklas said. “You need not… I am fine,” he amended. “I do not wish you to run yourself ragged catering to me. But I appreciate your kindness.”

“Oh? You would rather me a negligent husband?” Sasha still could not, it would seem, refrain from resorting to levity when faced with too delicate an emotion.

Nicklas’ face took on a bemused, wry expression, which seemed at war with amusement.

“Despite having attained the position of your husband a mere matter of hours ago, I am already quite sure you enjoy the sound of your voice too greatly to become negligent,” he said teasingly. Sasha thrilled at it as if electrified; Nicklas clearly had his measure already. 

“Thank you for your gracious introduction to my new home. I will see you at dinner, Alex.”

And with that he retreated into his rooms with one last glance, shutting the door behind him. 

-

Despite his unambiguous statement, Sasha was still surprised when Nicklas joined him for dinner, having at some point during the afternoon changed into a navy jacket but forgoing a cravat.

It – well. It suited him; Sasha imagined most fashions would.

They took their places at the table with an ease that belied the new nature of their companionship, as if they had dined in this very room, in these very spots, a hundred times. Their conversation ebbed and flowed with the meal so pleasantly that it was not until well into the third course that Sasha was reminded of what he meant to disclaim.

He set aside the serviette in his hands, and at their next pause took a steadying breath. “You will forgive me if I am making myself redundant, but I would be remiss if I did not make my intentions abundantly clear, so please humor me while I make my case once more and then I shall permit the matter to rest.”

Nicklas nodded, and Sasha continued.

“I am aware that this is, perhaps, a – discomfiting situation,” Sasha began carefully. “I am at an advantage, while you must acclimate to an entirely new residence. I want to assure you that my home is truly your home, and I will do all that I can to ensure you feel at ease here, so you must not hesitate to do as you please, or ask for anything you may find you need. Your comfort is paramount to me, above all else.”

Rather than dismiss Sasha’s concerns again, Nicklas held his gaze, and then nodded softly. “Thank you.” After a ponderous silence, he added: “I suspected I was correct about you; it is good to have it confirmed.”

“Correct about me?” Sasha asked, the revelation instigating a thrum of something beneath his breastbone. “In what capacity?”

But Nicklas declined to elaborate, instead shaking his head and then skilfully turning the conversation to the topic of the outer grounds until Sasha had forgotten the opaque remark entirely.

-

Sasha was near to putting out his candle when a soft knock came at his door. “What is it, Semin?” he called, but he received no answer, and so Sasha sighed and pulled a nightshirt over his head before crossing to answer.

In fact it was not Semin who awaited him on the other side; it was Nicklas.

“Oh,” Sasha said, surprised. “Is everything in order?”

“Yes, fine,” Nicklas answered. He shifted his weight, uncharacteristically ill at ease to Sasha’s eyes; despite that, Sasha could not help but notice that Nicklas had changed for bed, a loose shirt and breeches the only clothes outfitting him. His feet and his neck were both distractingly bare.

Sasha swallowed hard.

“Your rooms are comfortable?” Sasha asked after a moment, unsure of what brought Nicklas to his door at this late an hour.

“They – yes, they are fine.” Several expressions, from hesitant to resolved, flickered across his features. It was a long moment before he finally braced himself enough to make the purpose of his visit clear, but finally he spoke abruptly. “Am I to join you tonight?”

“Are you – what?” Sasha asked, confused.

Nicklas colored, and frowned. “We are married,” he explained. “I understand what that entails. You have been kind enough to provide me with my own rooms, but – but I will join you here, if that is what… what ought to be done.”

Sasha’s mind was at once too quick and too slow to grasp the meaning behind the offer. Of course Nicklas might think – there were certain privileges, after all, that came with marriage; and yet all the same, how could he imagine that Sasha – that he might feel entitled to such a thing, within the confines of their arrangement –

And, unbidden, came the image of _what_ precisely Nicklas was offering; himself, in Sasha’s bed. In another world where he was offering freely and with enthusiasm, rather than out of a sense of obligation, there might be nothing more in the world Sasha would so desire.

But not like this.

If Nicklas were to come to his bed, it should only be because he desired to, wholly. Only then would Sasha permit himself to step aside from the threshold of his doorway and pull Nicklas in by the bare of skin of his wrist, exposed where his nightshirt sat askew, pulling up on one arm and gaping down his collarbone on the opposite side. He would, then, be free to fit his hand around the curve of Nicklas’ jaw; to kiss him in every fashion he could think of, to slide off his nightshirt and to feel his flesh, watch it flush as his cheeks did in the low candlelight.

He would take Nicklas to bed, explore every part of him, encourage him to take Sasha apart in turn. He would do anything Nicklas requested, and Nicklas _would_ request; he would capably and assuredly direct Sasha this way and that, precisely as Nicklas wanted him, entirely his for the taking until they both gasped their pleasure into each others’ lips.

But that was not real.

What _was_ real stood before Sasha, uncomfortable and rigid, determination but nothing of desire writ across his every feature. As fervently as Sasha wanted that imagined Nicklas, it was most certainly not the man before him.

“Nicklas,” he said softly, and reached out to clasp him on the shoulder before realizing that was, perhaps, ill-advised. “I expect nothing of you. I desire nothing beyond your peace and contentment in this house.”

Nicklas’ stubborn expression redoubled, clearly unswayed. “But I am your husband. It is what you are due.”

Sasha held himself back from grimacing, sure that recoiling from the notion would only further Nicklas’ clouded expression.

“We are married,” he agreed instead. “That is the term of the arrangement we made, and nothing more. Beyond that I expect and hope for nothing except for a warm friendship between us.”

That was, more or less, the truth.

Nicklas did not look convinced, or even satisfied at the refusal, but Sasha merely forced himself to smile kindly and raise his hand – heretofore hovering in the middle space between them, following his aborted gesture – and touch, just barely, the outside of Nicklas’ elbow. “Go back to bed, Nicklas. I shall see you in the morning.”

Nicklas said nothing, only gazed steadily at Sasha through slitted and suspicious eyes before finally nodding once, abruptly, and turning on his heel, disappearing down the corridor. Within several paces he was mostly lost to the gloom, nearly a ghost himself, his pale nightshirt just glimmering, and then finally gone.

Sasha sighed heavily, and it was a long moment before he could return to his bed and put out the candle.

Even then, his hands were restless, and his blood up – a result, he presumed, of permitting himself to dwell too long on imagined possibilities that could not come to pass.

It was, though, distracting nonetheless, and it was with those thoughts, those glimmering images in his mind, that he took himself in hand, permitting himself the indulgence of bringing Nicklas’ face to mind – just this once.

It was, after all, their wedding night.

-

In the morning, nothing at all was said of their encounter, and if Nicklas felt any lingering unease he kept it close to his chest. They breakfasted together, and took their tea in the front parlor, trading pleasantries and observations on the morning with ease enough.

“I have promised to call upon Mr. Malkin in the afternoon,” Sasha apologized as the morning sun crept higher. “I will not subject you to his questionable company so early in our marriage, although I suspect he will intrude upon our peace sooner than later. In the meantime, I thought I might introduce you to the horses and hounds? I recall your mentioning of what an ardent rider you are from even our first meeting.”

Momentarily, he felt a twinge of embarrassment – perhaps it was too great a disclosure to reveal he had been collecting information about Nicklas even before their arrangement like a magpie? But Nicklas took no notice, a quiet enthusiasm coming over him at the suggestion.

“I would enjoy that,” he admitted. “So long as you have time, of course. I can just as easily find the stables on my own.”

“Nonsense,” Sasha dismissed, and set aside his cup and saucer. “We shall dress and I will take you straight away.”

Shortly they departed the parlor for their respective rooms, where Sasha changed into a traveling outfit and spent an uncharacteristic amount of time attempting to flatten his hair with the palm of his hand. On the whole he rather let it do as it pleased, choosing to believe it lent him a rakish air, but for some cause he could not name he now found himself inclined to tame it – or at least, attempt to.

It was rather a lost cause, though, and he gave it up as a bad job so as not to dally too long.

Nicklas rejoined him in the foyer, and they made for the stables together.

Kuzya, unexpectedly, was also there, rummaging around the tack store for spare bits of bridles and other miscellany, undoubtedly to cannibalize for his workshop. “I dare not inquire,” Sasha said to him by way of greeting; Kuzya simply waved him off with a hand, not deigning to turn from his task.

“Ought we be concerned?” Nicklas asked Sasha good-naturedly.

“Almost certainly,” Sasha agreed happily. “He will undoubtedly find some way to detonate whatever he creates with his stolen treasures.”

“Hello, Nicklas,” Kuzya called, his head now entirely concealed within the barrel he was pawing through.

“Good morning,” Nicklas replied, and allowed Sasha to lead him away.

“They are all sweet creatures,” he said as they approached the horses, tucked lazily away in their stalls. “Clytemnestra, and Iphigenia,” he introduced, nodding to two dark mares. “And back there you have Troilus and Cressida – Cressida is my secret favorite, but do not inform the others – as well as Archimedes and Alexander.”

Nicklas laughed unrestrainedly at that. “You’ve named one of your horses after yourself?”

“Officially, he is so named after Alexander the Great.”

“And unofficially?” 

Sasha grinned and shrugged. “Well.”

Nicklas’ laugh was reward enough and more for the teasing the chosen name had earned him from Semin and Kuzya.

They spent a leisurely span of time together, Sasha introducing Nicke personally to all the creatures, horses and hounds alike. Nicklas’ expression took on an especial softness as he greeted them all, although he seemed particularly fond of Alexander. When Sasha was finally obliged to leave him or face Zhenya’s wrath, Nicklas was happily occupied feeding Alexander a carrot and stroking the jet black of his mane.

“Do not let him boss you about too terribly,” Sasha instructed as he saddled Cressida. “He is well-suited as my namesake; slow to take any instruction, and in possession of abominable manners.”

As if to underscore this point, Alexander whickered and nudged Nicklas with his nose, clearly displeased at Nicklas’ attention shifting away from him even for the briefest of moments. Sasha smiled and shook his head as Nicklas obediently resumed his doting.

“Too late, I see; he’s already got the measure of you. You’ll be entirely at his command now.”

Nicklas tilted his head up, a strand of his hair shaking loose from where it had been tucked behind his ear. “Hm. I suppose so.”

He did not, however, sound at all troubled by the fact.

He remained right where he was, scratching Alexander – eyes slitted in lazy pleasure – behind the ears, as Sasha mounted and trotted away, waving as he went. Even once he had attained a good distance from the stables, it was all Sasha could think of, that lovely expression on Nicklas’ face. He was wearing an indelible smile even as he arrived at the Malkin home and greeted Zhenya.

“But where is your husband?” Zhenya asked teasingly as they turned Cressida over to a footman. “Surely you cannot have tired of his company in the space of a day.”

“Don’t be monstrous,” Sasha instructed him with a roll of his eyes, although his smile was still, insurmountably, affixed.

“Ah, he has tired of you, then,” Zhenya said knowingly. “That, I can all too easily conceive.”

Sasha stuck out his boot, catching Zhenya sharply across the shins. “I’ll have you know he is quite content at home; I left him in the stables, fawning over Alexander.”

Zhenya raised an eyebrow at him.

“The _horse_ ,” Sasha sighed; it did little to erase the menacing expression from Zhenya’s face, alas.

“Indeed,” he agreed slyly as they walked; they had no fixed plans for the afternoon, but history suggested it would include drink and sport of some variety. Sasha was not terrifically bothered about the specifics.

“Is your husband a fine mount, then?” Zhenya asked angelically, and laughed wickedly even as Sasha kicked him again.

-

The afternoon’s teasing did not subside for even a moment, and Sasha found himself begging off a third hand of cards – he already owed Zhenya no small sum, distracted as he was in attempting to answer Zhenya’s prodding questions about his new husband in the most mundane fashion he could muster, so as not to allow any further bawdy comments.

Zhenya, however, seemed determine to allow him no such mercy.

Finally, after threatening an invitation to a party he intended to host in the coming weeks, Zhenya sent Sasha off, dismissing him with a wave of the hand and instructing him to go “see to that new husband of yours,” earning him a smack about the ears from Sasha.

“And you must attend, and bring him with you – I have not seen him in a year at least, and never as your doting spouse.”

“I will do no such thing,” Sasha called cheerfully as he settled upon his saddle. “I enjoy his company too much to subject him to your presence.”

“If you decline I will simply arrive on your doorstep unannounced and behave myself even more abysmally than I otherwise might,” Zhenya promised as Sasha spurred Cressida into a trot, and he could not contain a harried laugh as he went – for he was sure that Zhenya would, if denied, undoubtedly do just that.

-

The following weeks were, if rather uncharted seas, overall much more comfortable than Sasha had braced himself for. Nicklas’ addition to the household was an easy integration, made so, Sasha concluded, by Nicklas’ nature itself; little seemed to perturb or arouse him, and he appeared to Sasha to approach their new partnership with the competent ease that characterized him in seemingly all regards.

As all new spouses might, they quickly established a sort of routine between them; they were alike, it would seem, in their tendency to rise late, and in fact Sasha often preceded Nicklas to the dining-room for their breakfast. Nevertheless, Sasha was content to patiently enjoy a leisurely meal, finding that the reward of Nicklas’ eventual company made a happy and auspicious start to his days.

They then retired to the parlor – the selfsame room Sasha’s mother had preferred; its charms had clearly affected Nicklas, as well – where Sasha handled obligations of the estate and correspondence for as long as he could endure. Nicklas did not always remain long, often drifting away towards his own pursuits, whatever they may have entailed, but seemed to have a preternatural ability to predict when Sasha’s attention would inevitably begin to wane. It was then that he would reappear, and he and Sasha would together embark upon more leisurely pursuits for the afternoon.

Nicklas was an easier horseman than Sasha, while Sasha had a slight upper-hand in shooting; they were fairly matched at cards, although Nicklas’ steady and impassive features proved harder to read than Sasha’s, and therefore he relied chiefly upon his good luck to match Nicklas’ ability to bluff. When the weather was foul-tempered Nicklas was content to read or write letters in Sasha’s company, often in the quiet comfort of Sasha’s rooms – his private library in effect became _theirs_ , rather than Sasha’s alone. Permanent fixtures that revealed Nicklas’ presence became established there – a discarded neckcloth, a stack of books that had attracted his attentions, a second writing-set – so gradually that at first Sasha did not notice; when he did, however, he found he could no longer picture the room without such installments.

In all, Sasha was pleased to discover that matrimony was not so foreign a country as he had imagined it; in the absence of any romantic (to say nothing of carnal) entanglements between the two parties, Nicklas’ presence was rather akin to Semin’s: steady and familiar in friendship and mutual admiration.

If, then, Sasha’s breath tended to catch in his throat upon an occasional glance – a stray lock of Nicklas’ hair brushed behind his ear, or the gentle divot of his throat when he loosed his neckcloth – that turned Sasha’s thoughts towards more prurient conceits than Semin ever elicited in him, well. There was no need to disclose that to anyone at all.

They found themselves, then, in their established positions in the parlor late one morning when the promised invitation to the soiree at Zhenya’s estate arrived.

“We need not attend,” Sasha informed Nicklas over his tea; Nicklas had not departed his company that morning, and so was reclined on a sofa idly paging through a thick volume when Sasha discovered the envelope.

“No?” Nicklas asked, one eyebrow raised inquiringly. “Is Evgeni not one of your closest friends?”

“Indeed,” Sasha agreed. “And therefore I know his true nature – he will be insufferable in his teasings of us; I dare not exposure you to his ill manners for fear you will reconsider our marriage.”

Nicklas snorted. “I have made his acquaintance in the past, you know,” he said. “He was perfectly charming at that time.”

“A fact that merely belies his capacity for performance,” Sasha groused. “Believe me, with me on your arm he will stop at nothing to terrorize us both as much as he can within the confines of mixed and polite company – an end to which he is notoriously well-skilled.”

Nicklas’ expression only turned mischievous. “I am not so easily cowed; he is more than welcome to attempt it. Write him and say we look forward to attending.” And with that he returned to his reading.

Not for the first time, Sasha marveled in pleased wonder at the strange, delightful creature whom he was privileged to call his husband.

-

Zhenya’s estate was, admittedly, grand, and on the evening of the party, quite filled to capacity with every quality person in the county – perhaps in the next, as well.

“Zhenya does little by half measures,” Sasha murmured to Nicklas as they exited their carriage together; they were immediately carried into the swell of bodies clamoring for entry.

“No, I should say not.”

A elegant woman in an emerald dress collided with them, then, compelling Nicklas to steady himself on Sasha; and even after she passed and their way cleared, Nicklas left his hand on Sasha’s elbow, allowing him to escort them into the grand ballroom as a pair.

The crowd redoubled as they entered, and it was many moments before Sasha could lead Nicklas to a corner that was not stuffed to the gills. They took cups from a passing waiter and leant against a wall beneath a looming portrait of a Malkin from past generations.

“The entire county seems to be in the ballroom,” Nicklas remarked, his mouth in an unimpressed moue. “It is scarcely possible to catch one’s breath.”

Sasha laughed. “We need only make a few pleasantries if you so desire,” he offered. “Zhenya will, undoubtedly, appear at some point, and I must demonstrate to him that we attended, but beyond that we are free to do as we might. Say the word and we will find a quiet corner or even summon the coach again.”

Nicklas tipped his head at Sasha. “So soon?”

Sasha shrugged magnanimously. “I told Zhenya I would come; I did not say I would stay.”

They maintained their post, although even there they were accosted by several acquaintances to whom they made the appropriate introductions of each other’s new husband. A quartet began at some point, prompting the bulk of the crowd to arrange themselves for a waltz. When they were alone, Sasha inclined his head at Nicklas and then towards the dancers invitingly.

Nicklas laughed heartily. “Do you think I have forgotten your courtship warnings about your dancing skills?”

“What I lack in ability I might yet account for in enthusiasm,” Sasha argued, although he was privately relieved. He _could_ dance, when required, but there was such a crowd, and he was not sure he was quite yet ready to endure having Nicklas in his arms with such an audience.

In any case, Nicklas’ countenance remained unconvinced.

“Come, we will find a quiet spot to compose ourselves. Zhenya’s library is quite impressive,” Sasha said, offering his arm to Nicklas. “Not nearly so impressive as mine, of course, but a formidable runner-up.”

“Is that so?” Nicklas asked, allowing himself to be led away from the press of guests. “Show me, then. So I might verify such a claim for myself.”

“At your service.” Sasha replied. He was helpless to deny Nicklas any request, he was rapidly discovering, and in any case an excuse to escort Nicklas to a quiet corner away from the throng of guests was more than welcome.

He led them down the familiar twisting corridors of Zhenya’s house, the sounds of the crowd falling away behind them.

“His taste in prose is entirely too fanciful for me,” Sasha was disclaiming as they approached the solid oaken doors. “But I cannot fault the breadth of his collection, at any rate.”

This far from the party, the house was chiefly unlit, and so Sasha readied a candle from a waiting alcove before they entered. Even so, the gloom persisted as they stepped through the threshold, and Sasha felt rather than saw his way towards the far desk where he knew there was a lamp to light, Nicklas still on his arm.

As they approached, however, a mass of shadows seemed to at once morph into a more coherent shape – or rather, _two_ coherent shapes, perched upon the desk, entangled in what was clearly a fired embrace.

“Oh!” Sasha exclaimed, for at once it was clear who they had stumbled upon. The glow of their candle finally reached the pair, causing them to spring apart upon being discovered, and there Sasha and Nicklas found their host, Zhenya’s waistcoat and neckcloth in the beginning stages of undoing, his companion’s hands clearly having just wandered beneath.

“Sasha,” Zhenya said, startled. “What–”

“Forgive us,” Sasha interrupted, torn between mortification and hysteria. “I meant only to show Nicklas – you know Nicklas,” (at this Nicklas bowed slightly, clearly flummoxed) “your library.”

“Ah, well. You, er, have found it. Perhaps another day?” Zhenya said, imploring them both with tone and expression to make a hasty retreat. His paramour, too, seemed likewise alarmed, glancing back and forth rapidly between all three parties.

“Of course. Please do excuse us. Zhenya, Your Highness,” Sasha intoned to the pair as politely as he could manage.

And then he was pulling Nicklas away as quick as might be achieved in the darkness, not halting even as they shut the door behind them.

“Was – was that Prince _Sidney?_ ” Nicklas asked, delight coloring his features as he visibly restrained himself from laughing. Sasha, too, tried to hold his own mirth in, knowing full well that if they started in laughing they would likely not stop for a long while, and it would be best if they were considerably further away from Zhenya’s earshot – and wrath – when it struck.

“Yes. Now, shh, come,” he said, hurrying Nicklas down the corridors, taking turns at random, intent only on achieving distance.

At last they found a kitchen where a fire glowed in the hearth, and there they collapsed upon a bench in laughter.

“I swear, I did not intend – I truly only meant to show you his library!” Sasha said between gasping laughter. Nicklas’ frame shook, silent as he laughed as well.

“Did – you knew?” he finally asked. “About Evgeni and Prince Sidney?”

“Ah, well,” Sasha said, willing himself not to lose himself to humor once more. “You can see that they perhaps are not always… discreet.”

“Goodness,” Nicklas said; and in the warm firelight, Sasha saw that his entire face was a lovely shade of pink.

They remained there until they had collected themselves, and eventually declared that there was nothing for it for them to stay any longer; “for it seems every corner of this house is entirely too populated,” Sasha agreed solemnly.

They exited through the kitchen door and walked together around the perimeter of the house; from the windows, they could spy the crowds still in motion, but Sasha felt no inclination to rejoin them – he was in precisely the company he desired.

“And you were keen to decline the invitation,” Nicklas scolded as they boarded their carriage together, leaning so slightly into Sasha’s shoulder. “Think what we would have missed.”

-

One inconvenience to an overly-large estate that, prior to Nicklas’ cohabitation, Sasha had scarcely considered, was the difficulty it presented when attempting to locate another person quickly and with ease. Now, though, as he fruitlessly searched for Nicklas, he found himself at the mercy of unoccupied room after unoccupied room.

Nicklas was not in his rooms, nor was he in the front parlor he tended to favor, the kitchens, the stables, or the ornamental gardens. Kuzya had seen neither hide nor hare of him, although that merely eliminated his workshop as a possible hiding spot; neither, though, had Semin, a fact he had reported on his way into town. That in itself was no mean feat, as few things within the estate escaped Semin’s observation.

“Blast it all,” Sasha groused as he checked the formal library, although not, precisely, unhappily. It was, he supposed, something of a pleasure to have in the first place someone he was so eager to locate.

In the end, he stumbled across Nicklas entirely by chance, folded neatly into a chair in Sasha’s private library, thumbing idly through one of Sasha’s discarded books.

“Oh!” he said, surprised. “So this is where you’ve hidden yourself.”

“‘Hidden’ ascribes more motivation to my presence here than I can own to, but yes. Here I am,” Nicklas said dryly, but he then bit his lip, unsure. “Is it alright? I know you said I was welcome, but I do not mind granting you your privacy.”

“None of that,” Sasha dismissed, loosening his neckcloth and taking the matching chair. “I offered, and I meant it.”

Nicklas shrugged, as if to say _have it your own way_ , and set aside the volume he was perusing.

“I was in search of you, anyway, so I can make no complaints that now I have located you. Are you busy?”

Nicklas blinked, and looked around the room; an empty tray sat discarded, clearly containing the remnants of Nicklas’ tea, and his shoes had been kicked off. It was the picture of leisure. “Terribly, as you can see.”

“Well, leave it – I’ve found something much more important.”

“Indeed?” Nicklas raised his eyebrows mildly.

“Out in the far fields,” Sasha said. “I’ll show you myself if you fancy a walk.”

“Alright,” Nicklas agreed. “Give me a moment.”

He leaned down to find his shoes, and Sasha was chagrined to find himself unable to resist tracking the movements; the graceful arch of Nicklas’ back as he bent, his deft fingers working the buttons, and – God help Sasha, the pale glimpse of skin at his ankle. He had not, until this moment, considered the various mundane yet secret landscapes of Nicklas’ flesh such as that at his ankle, but found that now it consumed his attention.

He swallowed hard, and forced himself to look instead out of the window until Nicklas was readied.

“Lead on,” Nicklas offered when he was, and together they departed.

As they made their way across the lawn, they talked easily, Sasha only faltering when he offered his hand to Nicklas to aid him over the low stone wall that contained the manicured expanse. It was patently unnecessary, but Nicklas accepted it all the same.

“Your collection of preferred books is fascinating,” Nicklas mentioned as they went. “I could scarcely find two titles addressing the same subject. Are your interests so varied?”

“Ah, well. As I have said, my attentions are often intense but short-lived.” For an indiscernible cause, the admission made Sasha twinge with self-consciousness, despite that it could scarcely be a new revelation to Nicklas, given their exchange of letters prior to the marriage addressing precisely that facet of his nature.

“Even so. It is a rare creature who makes a study of the Greek Gods and modern irrigation practices at once.”

Sasha felt inclined to blush. “You mistake inattention for depth, but I will accept the compliment nevertheless.”

Why the praise sat so warmly in Sasha’s chest was a notion he would explore at another time; for now, he would content himself to walk beside Nicklas, letting the breeze and the darting clouds play upon his face as they went.

The day had started fairly fine, although as they continued their expedition the clouds continued to gather, and then to overtake the sun completely. If Sasha had been paying greater attention, or was more inclined to conclude their sojourn, he might have advised that they return, so far from the house as they were getting and as rapidly as the sky was darkening, but as it stood he was too enamoured with their talk and Nicklas’ easy company, as well as his desired destination, to have any sense about him.

Nicklas was listening raptly to Sasha’s retelling of Zhenya’s latest escapade with Prince Sidney when they rounded a bend in the tall grass. “Ah, here,” Sasha interrupted himself, putting out an arm to halt Nicklas and nodding to the ground in front of them.

“A hedge,” Nicklas observed, quirking his mouth in that way Sasha was particularly enamoured with. “Wonderful. I can certainly see how this required both of our full attentions.”

“You fancy yourself quite clever, do you not?” Sasha asked, grinning broadly. Nicklas merely shrugged in response. “Look.”

With that, Sasha retrieved a long stick to part the tangle of the hedge, and revealed his discovery.

“Oh,” Nicklas said softly. Beneath the gnarled branches, dancing in the wind, there was a hollow, and inside it were three fox kits, just barely visible and curled into a small nest.

“I’ve been watching the mother vixen for a while now,” Sasha admitted. “They tend to favor this field for dens, and the – what do you call the males?”

“Reynards,” Nicklas prompted. “Vixens, kits, and reynards.”

“Is there anything you don’t know?” Sasha marveled.

“Several things, in fact. I’m sure this comes as a shock.” Nicklas smiled, and a strand of his hair blew wildly across his face as the wind gusted again.

It took Sasha a moment to regain his thoughts. “The reynard appeared not too long ago, and yesterday I tracked the mother here on a hunch. They are rather sweet, are they not?”

Nicklas considered the kits. True, they fairly resembled hairless rodents more than anything in their present newborn state, but their vulnerability surmounted such an obstacle in becoming endeared to them – even, it would seem, under Nicklas’ critical eye.

“I suppose they are, in their own way,” he allowed eventually.

“I have not been able to find a den for the last few years,” Sasha admitted, “although I have searched. It is foolish, but I’ve always considered it to be a sign of luck when I can.”

He looked away from the kits, then, considering instead Nicklas’ profile, framed against the wild fields as he regarded the animals.

“And how do you find your luck this year, then?” Nicklas asked after a quiet moment, looking still at the foxes.

“Quite improved,” Sasha answered softly.

It was at that moment, of course, that the first peal of thunder sounded.

They both glanced upward; the sky had nearly blackened, seemingly in an instant. “We have dallied too long, I am afraid,” Sasha said; the coming storm seemed imminent. “Come, we shall hurry and perhaps outrace the rain.”

Nicklas looked skeptical, but stepped away from the den and allowed Sasha to steer him back towards the house with a hand on his arm. “Follow my steps; I know this ground like the back of my hand,” Sasha instructed.

Nicklas did so, but fox kits or no, their luck had clearly taken its leave. They had only just, after a mad scramble, acquired sight of the house in the distance when the skies opened, in seconds soaking them both to the skin.

“Hell,” Sasha called over the noise; he slowed his steps, though, as there was nothing for it now. And there was, admittedly, a certain wild and feral joy to be found in the midst of a storm – he could not stop himself from tipping his head back to the rain and laughing.

Nicklas, however, did not appear to share Sasha’s visceral joy. He squinted against the droplets pouring off his brow, matting his hair to his head. “I knew it unwise to follow you so blindly. I now know to hide myself more successfully the next time it looks like rain,” he forswore. 

But he smiled as well, and Sasha only laughed harder into the skies.

They tramped wetly across the field and finally the gardens, drenched as if they had fallen into a lake by the time Sasha threw open the door and ushered them inside.

“Semin would skin us if he were to see us now,” Sasha said, gesturing to where they were both causing small puddles to form on the floor.

He found himself, inexplicably, compelled to whisper. There was no one to hear them, and even if there were, this was Sasha’s own home – he need not answer to anyone within its walls.

Still, the dim of the hall and the now muted patter of rain through the latched door imbued the house with an undeniable sense of close quietude, and Sasha was disinclined to violate it.

“Semin would bring us a cloth,” Nicklas countered, clutching his arms close to his body, and it was this that spurred Sasha into action; they would both undoubtedly catch a chill if they stood there in their sodden clothes any longer.

“Of course – come. Look, your teeth.” Nicklas’ jaw had begun to chatter, and Sasha herded him briskly, for want of a better destination, towards his own rooms.

They walked together, Sasha hunching as near to Nicklas as he dared. The sense of a sanctuary-like silence enveloped them still, and Sasha found himself keeping his tread as light as possible, as if not to disturb the moment.

A low fire was burning in the grate of his rooms, for which he was thankful – the drafts of the house were rapidly stealing away even his warmth, hot blooded as he was; Nicklas, who was clearly made of less resilient stuff, was positively blue by the time they huddled near it the flames, foregoing the chairs entirely in favor of the rug.

“Never mind the mess,” Sasha directed, shaking out his sodden hair so that droplets sprayed chaotically, hissing as they reached the fire. Nicklas, too, was their target, and although he flinched, he then shrugged.

“I suppose it is not possible to become wetter,” he admitted.

“I would send Semin to assist you in changing were he not in town,” Sasha said regretfully. “I apologize that you must make do with me.”

“Nonsense,” said Nicklas. “I am perfectly capable of dressing myself.”

“Of course,” Sasha agreed, expecting Nicklas to then take his leave.

He did not, though, instead staying quite near to the fire and to Sasha himself; his shaking had nearly receded by the time Sasha emerged from the reverie induced by the crackling flames and Nicklas’ nearness to set about finding them cloths and dry clothing.

“You will catch a terrible chill,” he said as he began to tear through his wardrobe, chiding himself for allowing Nicklas to remain for so long entirely sodden. He landed upon a pair of thick cloths, handing one to Nicklas so that he could dry his face and hair before pulling out two sets of worn shirts and breeches that they might change into. His own garments would surely dwarf Nicklas’ frame, but the notion of sending Nicklas back to the cold, dark corridor to find his own seemed now quite out of the question.

“Here,” he said firmly as he thrust the dry clothing to Nicklas. “Dry yourself and don these.”

Nicklas raised a curious eyebrow at Sasha, but then his fingers moved to unbutton his collar and cuffs; Sasha gulped a breath and turned away sharply, chiding himself for not thinking earlier of Nicklas’ privacy.

He busied himself drying his own hair and rearranging the items upon his bureau, trying as hard as he might not to conjure up an imagining of the scene just behind him. Still, he could not help but hear Nicklas’ movements, and inevitably they illustrated a neat picture: the loosening of his neckcloth – a sight that Sasha was familiar enough with, and yet took a new tenor and meaning in this closer, more intimate context – and then the quiet sound of his waistcoat and shirt, shucked aside and landing in a pile on the floor. The quiet footfalls of Nicklas stepping out his trousers was next, and Sasha was compelled to shut his eyes and grasp the edge of his bureau tightly, so that his knuckles turned white. His blood was up, his own self stiffening and hot, and he could not – he would not – 

Sasha would allow that the resolution made on the eve of their wedding – that his thoughts of Nicklas’ body and flesh were not to be repeated, that he would not make a habit of thinking salaciously on his own husband while left to his own pleasures in the privacy of his bedchambers – had fallen short. There must be something alchemical within Nicklas that altered Sasha’s decency and composure, for he had since been unable to think of anything else but the fervor with which he wished to know him. The initial lapse had been meant to be a solitary transgression, a confusion of nerves and spirit borne of the unusual act of marriage; yet as once had become twice, and twice a habit, Sasha was forced to admit he was unable to constrain himself, and resolved only a new measure – that Nicklas must never become aware of his wild and impure predilection.

A goal that was most unsustainable in his current condition; the evidence of his arousal was quite plain even through his sodden breeches.

Behind him Nicklas coughed, and then said, “You may look, now.”

Sasha adjusted his flies as best he might; when he turned, however, his state was not improved by the image of Nicklas wearing his clothes. The cuffs of the soft white shirt were entirely too long, grazing past his knuckles, although his shoulders filled it out well enough; likewise Sasha’s advanced height over Nicklas caused the hem of his soft linen trousers to fall low, nearly obscuring the delicate skin of Nicklas’ bare foot, where he had clearly foregone his dampened stockings.

The sight of Nicklas, so intimately adorned in Sasha’s wardrobe, so pink in the cheek and his hair wild, rekindled both Sasha’s affections and arousal; it was so dear, and so intimate, and he could too easily conceive of a life like this – a marriage of love, of proximity both of body and spirit, one in which he woke to Nicklas’ bewitching face and queer smile with the sun each day. He could not tell the many ways in which the notion affected him, deeply and beyond even carnality.

“Do not laugh,” Nicklas instructed, voice and smile alike soft. “We cannot all be as tall as a tree, nor wide.”

“Yet I am fond enough of you yet,” Sasha responded, attempting to imbue it with at least modicum of teasing wit rather than pure affection; it was perhaps not quite effective as he would wish, and still the least effusive answer he could manage.

In any case, he could not bring himself to regret it, as it seemed – at least, to Sasha’s eyes, wishful as they might be – that Nicklas colored in the low firelight, just slightly so, across the bridge of his nose and cheeks.

“Sit there by the fire and warm yourself,” Sasha instructed then, attempting to recapture a sense of firm ground. “I will change, and we will thaw out our bones, and then make for the kitchens and see what warm things we can beg.”

“A fine plan,” Nicklas agreed, and folded himself upon the rug very carefully, knees drawn up as he huddled close to the fire, licking warm and orange upon the bend of his nose.

If Sasha gazed too long and too adoring at him before turning to his business, redressing in the warm and dry clothes with only a secret, perfunctory grasp of his manhood, well – none of that was anyone’s business but his own.

When he sat beside Nicklas he felt steadier, if only just so. They inched close, as seemed fitting to the comfortable atmosphere, and Sasha leant his shoulder against Nicklas’, carelessly enough that it might seem an accident.

Nicklas did not pull away.

“Your fox kits were a treat,” Nicklas said eventually, eyes still intent on the flames. “Thank you, for bringing me to see them.”

“Of course,” Sasha said earnestly. “It is – what I have to share, it is my honor to do so with you.”

Nicklas turned, then, to return Sasha’s gaze.

“From any other man, as much a stranger as not,” Nicklas said slowly, “I would think such a proclamation insincere. And yet from you, I… well. I feel I know you.” His head tilted consideringly, taking Sasha’s measure; he leant closer, the space between them shrinking. “I believe you say only what you mean. Am I correct?”

“You are,” Sasha breathed, and then dared to bring his hand to touch – as gently as he could manage – the soft curve of Nicklas’ cheek. “Nicklas, I – “

They were now very close, so close that to move any more would bring together their lips, their bodies, and allow Sasha to do as he so desired to do: to gather Nicklas in his arms and kiss him, to warm him through and through in all ways, to convince him that he meant all that he said, that to him Nicklas was –

The fire popped violently, and they jolted away, the spell broken.

“Good heavens,” Nicklas said, plainly startled. “Oh, you’ve…” He reached out with his thumb, then, and wiped away a streak of ash that had fallen on Sasha’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Sasha answered, heart beating frantically.

It was most peculiar – Sasha had no scant experience in knowing the physical forms of others, and yet to be this near to Nicklas, to have not even kissed him but to have merely _feigned_ at kissing him had set him more askew and undone than the most bawdy of his entanglements. He did not know, precisely, how that might be true, and yet it was.

The tension of the moment had lifted, though, and now they resumed their previous selves: two companions, slightly damp, huddled near to a fire and – at least in Sasha’s case – near to starving.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked as politely as he could. “We will find our luncheon now, if so.”

“I am,” Nicklas agreed, and allowed Sasha to extend his hand and escort him to his feet; and then, to the kitchens; and then, to the parlour, where they might take their tea; and Sasha hoped feverishly all the while that Nicklas would continue to allow him to accompany him, to wherever he so desired, for as long as possible.

-

Their easy companionship was not shaken by the intimate moment; and although it was not repeated, nor did it upset the rhythm they were forging for themselves as friends as well as partners of the household. Sasha quickly found that his favorite time of day had become the hour or so after they breakfasted, sitting together in the morning parlor as they took to their respective tasks, the possibility of the day before them wide and unrestrained in a joyfully liberating capacity which Sasha was wholly unused to.

Merely the act of receiving and responding to his correspondence was much improved by Nicklas’ companionship, even though they need not exchange many words as they read and wrote from their spots – Sasha at a desk, Nicklas on the divan he favored.

A fine morning (or even a foul-tempered one), a pot of warm tea, a fire in the grate and Nicklas at his side – Sasha could not have designed a more pleasant start, and to enjoy it each day of the week was a valued gift he could not have foreseen treasuring so ardently.

On this day, the weather was not quite so fine – rain threatening again, compelling them to shutter the windows against it. Even so, the tap of the occasional drops from beyond the windows felt pleasant enough, and Sasha found himself hard-pressed to focus on the letter to a business associate at hand, more inclined to gaze happily around the room, at the trees bending in the wind outside the window, and, yes, at Nicklas.

As if roused by Sasha’s attentions, from his perch upon the cushions Nicklas paused in the letter he was perusing to tutt fondly. 

“You’re smiling,” Sasha observed; the condition seemed to be catching.

“A letter from Mr. Burakovsky. It would seem that Andre is up to his familiar antics,” Nicklas explained; Sasha suspected Nicklas intended to sound disapproving, but hit somewhere closer to indulgent. “He is in love once more, it would seem. He writes that he has met ‘the second half of his heart,’ and can scarcely eat nor drink, he is so consumed with thoughts of his new paramour. This makes, what – the third this year? I believe that is it.”

Sasha smiled, not least of all owing to the endeared expression upon Nicklas’ face, belying any of his attempts to sound put-upon.

“A soft heart. You are quite fond of him,” Sasha observed, pleased by each morsel of information he collected about Nicklas and ever eager to obtain more. “How did you become close?”

“Oh, we’ve known each other all our lives. Our fathers were friends at school and remained so throughout adulthood. They are of… similar dispositions,” Nicklas said carefully, the barest hint of disdain creeping through his placid facade. 

Sasha nodded. “Ah.” He was by no means an expert on the minutiae of Nicklas’ relationship with the Earl of Backstrom, but suffice to say he had, since they wed, gleaned even deeper currents of conflict than previously alluded to.

“Andre is nearer in age to Kristoffer, but we have always been close. In some ways I always imagined myself something of a protector for him.” Nicklas shrugged. “He has always been – fanciful.” The smile quirked his lips once more. “His heart is entirely too encompassing for his own good. Likewise his affections.”

Sasha laughed at that, and felt that Andre must be a special sort, to have so won Nicklas’ fond friendship.

“I suppose he is rather at loose ends without you,” Sasha offered; Nicklas’ responding expression spoke volumes.

“I fear without my watchful gaze his affections will become even more widespread,” Nicklas agreed. “As is the case with this – what was his name?” He glanced down at the letter again. “A Mr. Brooks Laich.”

“I do not recognize the name,” Sasha said, although he might have, had he put his mind to it. He was, however, distracted, an idea rapidly taking shape. “Do you think he might care to visit? Your Andre, I mean, not this Laich fellow.”

Nicklas snorted as he held back a laugh. “Yes, I suppose he might,” he agreed. “Are you sure, though? I would not impose.”

“Nicklas,” Sasha said with a frown, leaning in close to underscore his point. “As I have said, this is your home. You cannot impose within your own home. If Andre’s presence would please you – and ease the burden on the eligible youths of the county – I would insist upon it.”

He did not add that such a guest might go a great distance to finally, truly put Nicklas at ease and convince him to accept the house as his own domain, although certainly the notion swirled in his mind.

Nicklas sighed in response, but it was clear he did not intend to argue the point. “As you say. I suppose I could write.”

“Do,” Sasha insisted enthusiastically. “Semin will arrange it all.”

Nicklas said no more on the topic, instead turning to look thoughtfully out the window, but the following day Semin corned Sasha in his library and asked which of the rooms he might open to prepare for Mr. Burakovsky’s visit.

-

Andre arrived the following week, a happily frantic whirlwind of cases and exclamations, greeting Sasha as if he were an old friend, the same ilk as Nicklas.

He came laden with trunks, and compliments for the house and the grounds, and excited tales of his paramour Mr. Laich, so enthusiastic that Sasha found the afternoon and evening passing with scarcely time to breathe; before he knew it, Andre had retired for the evening, leaving him and Nicklas to finish their port fairly in a daze.

“Good heavens,” Sasha breathed. “Is he always in such fine spirits?”

Nicklas smiled, clearly better accustomed to Andre. “Quite exclusively, excepting the rare moments in which he is morose – usually owing to not earning enough attention from those around him. Those can be trying minutes, numbering ten or even fifteen at times, until he remembers himself.”

Sasha exhaled and smiled. “It is like having a young pup underfoot; I mean that only in the highest praise,” he clarified. “It is good for old men such as us to be reminded of the vigor of youth.”

Nicklas merely laughed at him, and it was nearly an hour more before he finally retreated to his rooms, leaving Sasha to finish the last of his drink alone, reflecting fondly on the day’s events.

Andre’s vigor carried through his visit, sustained for a week and then another. Sasha was content to give him and Nicklas their privacy, as old friends deserved, but more often they insisted that he join them in cards or strolls. Likewise Sasha suggested their trio take a trip to the tavern in town, and to his shooting grounds, and with scarcely any effort at all he found he considered Andre not simply an acquaintance of Nicklas’, but a friend of his.

It was, however, no small relief when Semin conveyed a message from Mr. Holtby over breakfast; Sasha was rather running out of ways with which to occupy Andre’s unbound enthusiasms – Braden, however, and the invitation which he offered, promised a perfectly tailored endeavour for the day.

“Braden – Mr. Holtby has invited us for a picnic lunch,” Sasha informed both Nicklas and Andre. “A longtime friend of mine,” he explained for Andre’s benefit. “He serves as landlord for the estate.”

“Oh?” Andre asked, with not imperceptible interest; it has the effect of eliciting a sigh from Nicklas, which Andre ignored.

“He is quite eager to make your acquaintances; owing to his status as quite an eligible bachelor – and a handsome one at that – I would be remiss not to make the appropriate introductions.”

Sasha could not help himself from it; considering his reserved nature, _eager_ was perhaps a loose interpretation of Braden’s motivations. He was not at all a _shy_ man; still, a truer representation would attribute the invitation to Braden’s unflinching politeness and hospitality, which only just surpassed his inclination for solitude.

It had, however, the desired effect of piquing Andre’s interest further, and to Nicklas’ palpably increasing chagrin, so Sasha supposed he could be forgiven for taking liberties.

“You ought not encourage Andre so,” Nicklas chided him after dinner; they were sequestered in Sasha’s private library again, as was becoming their habit in the evenings.

“I have no idea what you mean,” Sasha lied happily.

-

The chosen day of their picnic, although perhaps overly warm, was fine nonetheless, and Andre chattered excitedly from the moment they breakfasted together until their shared carriage approached the stone facade of Braden’s humble but well-maintained home. Braden himself awaited them in the lovingly-tended flower garden that surrounded the house, idly touching the pads of his fingertips to a small collection of yellow blooms as if soothing them into sleep; however, as their party came close, he stood aside to greet them.

Sasha clapped Braden firmly on the shoulder in greeting, and made the necessary introductions, first to Nicklas – failing, yet still, to restrain the happy delirium that came over him when uttering the phrase “my husband,” a condition Sasha feared to be long-standing – and then to Andre.

“Lord Burakovsky,” Braden said upon the introduction, soft and serious, taking Andre’s hand in his as he bowed. Andre managed to look delighted and a bit embarrassed at the formal display. “It is my pleasure to meet you.”

“Please,” he demurred. “I am Andre to my friends; and we shall be friends, shall we not?” His tone and stance alike were the picture of flirtation, although Sasha could not say if it was intentional or not. He would ask Nicklas for insight upon the matter once they were alone.

For himself, Braden merely colored faintly along his cheekbones, although it was chiefly obscured by his beard, and nodded again stiffly, as if unsure what to do in the face of such open affection from a stranger.

“Braden, you must show us to the newest orchards at once,” Sasha said, stepping forward to serve as a buffer while Braden acclimated himself to Andre’s attentions. “Tell us, now, of what you have grown this season.”

Resettled in familiar territory, Braden led them first to a stowed hamper containing their lunch, and then around the cottage and towards the designated spot. “It is not too terribly far, if you do not mind a gentle walk,” he disclaimed to Andre and Nicklas. 

“Nothing should please me more,” Andre agreed warmly. “Will you show me the way?”

Sasha had fallen into step along Braden at the onset of their journey, however within moments it seemed that Andre had – entirely unbeknownst to Sasha – edged him out of his place so that he accompanied Braden, inducing Sasha and Nicklas to fall back several paces and walk as their own pair.

“Poor Mr. Holtby,” Nicklas said under his breath to Sasha after a moment’s time, just low enough that only their two selves might hear it. “Andre has him in his sights, I fear.”

Ahead of them, Andre chatted animatedly to Braden, who seemed entirely puzzled and a bit stupefied by the attention; while Andre’s hands flitted occasionally to rest at Braden’s arm, or elbow, or to point out a sight in the scenery, Braden’s remained tightly clasped behind his back, rigid as a tree trunk, resigned chiefly to nods of agreement to whatever their topic of conversation landed on.

“I do not know how he came to overtake my position at Braden’s side,” Sasha agreed with no small measure of admiration. “Not, of course, that I regret your company.”

Nicklas laughed softly, although when Sasha chanced a glance at him, his fair features had blushed just slightly.

It very well could have been from the exertion of the walk.

The brief excursion to the orchard was entirely picturesque, a perfectly warm day that was not overly so owing to the down-feather clouds that hung stark white in the blue sky. When Sasha began to feel overwarm, enough to remove his hat at least – they were in close enough company, after all – a cooling breeze sprung up as if summoned directly. The birdsong and soft footfall of their boots were the only accompanying music, and Sasha’s heart was light as they proceeded so that he nearly hoped the walk would not end.

Despite all wishes, however, the walk did indeed conclude, altogether too quickly for Sasha’s desires. The spot that Braden had chosen, though, was lovely, on the outskirts of his fruiting orchard; a riding blanket had been previously stowed away there for their use, and he spread it across the grass easily before gesturing Andre to sit.

Sasha offered his hand to Nicklas, who merely glanced at him and sat on his own, then raising his eyebrows until Sasha joined him.

“Do you have a prefered quotation?” Andre was inquiring of Braden, clearly continuing a conversation Sasha and Nicklas had not been privy to.

“Oh, well – I suppose I must own to a fondness of sonnet one hundred and sixteen. ‘Love is not love / Which alters when it alteration finds, / Or bends with the – the – ’” He trailed off then, as if embarrassed by his own recitation, precise and full of feeling though – even Sasha must admit, despite that poetry was a topic for which he did not share Braden’s enthusiasm – it undoubtedly was.

Andre, though, looked enraptured, for he continued precisely where Braden left it off. “‘With the remover to remove / O no! It is an ever-fixed mark / That looks on tempests and is never shaken.’ I believe that is how it goes.” 

“I defer to your expertise,” Braden said humbly, coloring. “You undoubtedly have a greater knowledge on the subject than I; no man might mistake me for a poet, but merely a hobbyist.”

“You are too modest, Mr. Holtby; your taste is fine indeed and most welcome. I can find no other party with whom I might share my interest in poetry, Nicklas here most especially.”

Nicklas grimaced. “Poetry is lost on me, I am afraid,” he admitted with an air of pain, as if the topic had been long-worn between the two to no happy agreement.

“Thank heavens,” Sasha said to him. “I have no head for poetry myself; it is a great relief to know I will not be compelled to feign interest to please my husband – although of course I should have were it required of me.” 

Nicklas’ reluctant smile emerged, again as if despite his intentions. “I would never ask you to endure such a hardship.”

Andre threw up his hands. “Heathens, all of you! You will have to endure me, then, Mr. Holtby, as the only one amongst our party with a sense of taste on the matter. Please, if you care to recite any more, I would be eager to listen.”

But Braden merely colored, murmuring his appreciations and then remaining silent for a fair moment. When he spoke again, many minutes later, it was to Sasha, on an entirely separate matter – the terracing of fields in the further western reaches of the neighboring farms. And although Andre did attempt to direct the conversation back to their shared interest, Braden continued to defer, claiming, in what Sasha knew to be a lie likely borne of reservedness, that he did not know enough on the matter to speak further.

All the same Sasha counted the outing as a success, Nicklas’ contented and peaceable expression not least of which was the cause of his esteem. Sasha had discovered Nicklas to be rather fitful in terms of which foods he found agreeable, but even he ate heartily, and afterward was content to lean back upon his elbows and tilt his face to the sun, eyes closed in a cat-like fashion. For a long moment Sasha could not have pinpointed the topic of conversation that Andre was currently attempting to draw Braden into, so entranced he was by Nicklas, resplendent and pale gold in the sun; a sweeter sight in the world Sasha would be hard-pressed to name.

Poor Braden did not seem to relocate his footing, although he remained perfectly polite for the duration of their visit, even offering his arm to assist Andre over a treacherous stretch of mud. He bid them all to visit again soon, and especially thanked Andre for making the journey – attention that, quite plainly, pleased Andre to his core.

“Did you enjoy Mr. Holtby’s company?” Sasha inquired as their carriage returned home.

“Indeed. He is quite pleasing to see,” Andre said quickly, before considering further. “And kind, as well, if a bit withdrawn. I do wish we might have spoken more about his interest in poetry – he was rather animated then, moreso than on any other topic we discussed.” There seemed to be no judgment to the assessment; merely puzzlement that not all shared Andre’s proclivity for bold affection.

“He is inclined towards restraint,” Sasha agreed. “I hope you will not give credence to his modesty, however, as he really is a most accomplished poet. It is only that he is so loathe towards anything that might resemble pride or boastfulness that he often says nothing at all, rather than that which might be mistaken for self-satisfaction.”

“A noble trait,” Andre agreed mildly. “I hope that if our acquaintance were to continue he might feel at ease enough to become less restrained.”

“I do believe he would,” Sasha agreed earnestly. “We will have him for dinner, then, and I predict that you will be friends by the time the leaves begin to turn.” 

“I would enjoy that,” Andre agreed, and then turned to Nicklas. “Have you written to Marcus recently?”

“I have not had the time,” Nicklas said, and Andre took the opportunity to appraise him of the goings-on of their shared acquaintances for the duration of the carriage ride; Sasha was content enough to sit back and simply share their company and easy conversation until they arrived home.

-

Andre’s visit continued for another week, during which he spoke often and fawningly of Mr. Laich, yes – the outings they had planned for the following months, the loveliness of his eyes and hair, his fashionable outfits and holdings – but also, at times, of Braden. Certainly not to the same degree, or with the same affection – chiefly he reflected again that Braden was fine in appearance, if too reserved – but enough to become of note to Sasha. He debated whether he ought to mention this to Nicklas, but feared that it might be improper, or perhaps not worthy of note, given how accustomed Nicklas seemed to Andre’s frenetic attentions.

The issue was resolved, though, by Andre’s eventual departure, and Sasha put it out of his mind as his attention was immediately required in a new matter: making arrangements for traveling to London.

Nicklas’ family, it would seem, possessed a house in town, and it was Nicklas’ practice to visit with some regularity, seeing to its condition. Privately, Sasha suspected this arrangement had more to do with putting distance between Nicklas and his father, but kept this to himself. The pertinent detail was that Nicklas’ long-scheduled visit was rapidly approaching.

Nicklas had demurred when he broached the topic, clarifying that there was absolutely no need to make the pilgrimage if Sasha did not care to, but Sasha swatted down such protestations: “Nonsense; I have not been to the city in entirely too long, and it will take on all the more appeal when viewed through new eyes. You must show me all your favorite haunts and diversions.”

Nicklas did not protest this, only nodded and quirked a smile; within the week, they were away.

The Backstrom’s apartments in Russell Square clearly saw use infrequently; many of the furnishings were still under their cloths when they arrived, and only the barest retinue of household staff seemed to have been called in. 

“Father despises the city,” Nicklas explained with a shrug. 

Sasha then experienced the pleasantly unfamiliar sensation of being introduced to their home for the foreseeable future by Nicklas, rather than their previously established, inverted milieu.

“I dare not guess how poorly the pantries are stocked,” Nicklas disclaimed. “If it suits you better we might dine out.”

Sasha waved a hand. “Only if you truly desire; I am plenty capable of making do here.” It occurred to him that it would not hurt to demonstrate to Nicklas the same ease and accommodation that he had, upon arriving at the Ovechkin estate.

Nicklas, for his part, seemed relieved by the answer. “Then I would stay in, if you do not mind. Traveling does drain me; I would prefer the comforts of home for a night before we are called upon to be social.”

Sasha could think of nothing that would please him more, than to provide the source of Nicklas’ comfort.

No sooner had they finished a cobbled-together meal of salted meats and bread and removed to the front parlor, however, than a flurry of noise sounded in the hall, and a moment later, two young men entered the room without ceremony.

“Nicky!” one cried happily, and then, seeming to recall himself, pulled an attempt at a scowl across his feature. “You did not inform us you were arriving.”

“And why ought I?” Nicklas said, feigning displeasure that was decried by the pleased quirk to his mouth and softness about his eyes. He stood to greet the men, and Sasha followed suit. “Here you stand anyway; clearly you do not require notice, nor invitation.”

The man was clearly not chagrined, and instead pulled Nicklas towards him, part handshake and embrace. The larger man next to him repeated the motion, the three of them quite plainly intimate friends.

“Alex,” Nicklas said to Sasha, “meet my ill-mannered friends. Here is Mr. Michael Latta” – he nodded towards the shorter man who had spoken first, “and Mr. Thomas Wilson. Tom, Michael, my husband, Captain Alexander Ovechkin.”

“Good heavens,” the one called Latta said, quite plainly appraising Sasha before glancing back and forth between Sasha and Nicklas with no subtlety whatsoever.

The Mr. Wilson nudged him bodily, as if to remind him of his manners, and Latta colored. “Forgive me,” he said to Sasha, “only Nicky did not mention you were so…”

“Handsome,” Wilson interjected politely.

“I meant to say _large_ ,” said Latta, “but true enough.”

Sasha hesitated only long enough to let the two young men worry for the briefest moment that they had offended him, and then boomed out the laughter he was struggling to contain.

“Mr. Latta, Mr. Wilson,” he said, offering them both his hand in turn. “It is my great pleasure; a friend of Nicklas’ is a friend of mine. If history has made any pattern plain, we will get on famously.”

“That’s right, you’ve met our Andre, have you not?” asked Latta.

“Indeed, and he has been a welcome guest at our home as well. I would be quite content if the only benefit of our marriage was to become acquainted with Nicklas’ charming friends – although of course it is not,” he said. At his elbow, Nicklas scoffed, just as Sasha had designed. 

“On that point, Nicky, it is _hardly_ fair that Andre was invited to the wedding and we were not,” Wilson protested.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nicklas said fondly. “Andre was in the county, first of all; and where were the pair of you? On the continent, scandalizing the poor citizens of Venice, no doubt. They’ve just returned from a brief tour,” he explained for Sasha’s benefit.

“Well,” said Wilson dourly. “That is hardly the point.”

“Of course,” Nicklas answered wryly. “My apologies; the next time I am married, I will be sure to arrange it more conveniently around your leisure.”

“What, now, the _next_ time you are married?” Sasha asked teasingly. “Have you grown so weary of me already that you turn your attentions to another?”

Nicklas threw up his hands, exasperated. “I should not be surprised that the three of you together in a room might torment me so, even just upon meeting.”

“Lucky for you we come bearing gifts of apology for our bad manners,” Latta said, producing a bottle of spirits from the inner reserves of his coat.

“Can it count as an apology if said manners were premeditated enough to inform the need of such a gift?” Nicklas asked; however the question was posed mostly to himself, as Sasha was already exclaiming his pleasure and pulling forth two more chairs so that the guests might join them.

“We must become friends,” Sasha instructed them both as they sat. “You do not have any obligations for the evening?” Wilson and Latta both answered that they did not. “Wonderful – we will play cards and you can tell me every awful and embarrassing story about Nicklas that I, as his husband, must be made aware of.”

“Have I no say in this?” Nicklas grumbled, but he took his place around the card table beside Sasha all the same, aiming him a brief smile at him that was all the encouragement Sasha required.

So passed the next several hours in easy, increasingly jovial company. Wilson and Latta were exactly the sort Sasha valued; earnest and without pretense, excitable and unwilling to stand on airs amongst friends. Although they were both wretched card players and Nicklas was making no attempt to take mercy on them as he took hand after hand, their spirits never dampened, only took more pleasure in recalling all the tales of Nicklas from years past that he clearly did not wish Sasha to hear, from his quarrels with a neighbor at the Backstrom estate over his ill-treatment of a mare – “his stables were in _disrepair_ ,” Nicklas protested; “it was my _duty_ to take her and provide a more suitable home.” – to a prospective suitor who had approached his father when Nicklas was only sixteen, keen on marrying him despite being greater than thrice Nicklas’ age.

“He was wretched both in character and appearance,” Nicklas said simply, perfectly assured in his judgment. “I maintain that I was within my rights to laugh in his face.”

Sasha, for his part, was laughing too heartily to answer.

As their latest hand concluded, Wilson and Latta begged off beginning another just yet – it was quite late, having been hours since they had all sat down, and Sasha saw the wisdom of a break with which all parties might gather themselves. They excused themselves to find both air and refreshments, leaving Sasha with Nicklas.

“I like them,” he informed Nicklas happily.

Nicklas seemed pleased by the assessment, although he answered simply, “As do I, for reasons only God might know.”

“Because they are clearly the keepers of the tales of your indecent youth which you would otherwise hide from me?” Sasha asked innocently; Nicklas threw a playing card at his head, and Sasha laughed again as it bounced off his chin, too enamored with the flush of Nicklas’ cheeks, the curve of his helpless grin to do anything else.

“A bit of air might suit me well before we resume our game,” Sasha added, pushing back his chair. “Might I take a turn about the house?”

“Of course,” Nicklas said. “As you are so fond of telling me, this is as much your home as mine.”

Sasha could not help the booming laugh that escaped him, and Nicklas’ quietly delighted smile was all the more treat.

“There is a balcony off one of those rooms if you follow the stairs,” Nicklas informed him, waving a hand towards the front of the house, a happy and loose flush on his still-smiling face. “Go take your air; I will wait for the boys to reappear.”

Sasha bowed, elaborately and a bit unbalanced, eliciting a roll of Nicklas’ eyes as he departed. He heard the snap of the cards being shuffled as he went.

He drifted up the stairs and through the darkened house, peering inside closed doors at the shut-up rooms and half-heartedly trying to discern which might contain the balcony. He was distracted enough by thoughts of what diversions he and Nicklas might take in while in London – his family still, to his knowledge, maintained a subscription at the theatre, and there was certainly something attractive in the idea of taking Nicklas out, to be admired and then squired away to their private box – that he was entirely surprised to open a door towards the end of the hall only to be greeted by Wilson and Latta, thoroughly entangled against a bookcase, kissing noisily.

They took no notice of him at first, and perhaps a kinder man would have made a quiet escape and left them to it. Sasha, though, was no such man.

“Ahem,” he said loudly, barely even feigning at an authentic cough; just as he hoped, Latta and Wilson sprung apart as if a pistol had been fired, Wilson letting out a yip of surprise. In their haste, several items were knocked from the shelves.

“My apologies,” Sasha said, not bothering to disguise the delight on his features and in his voice. “I did not know the room was occupied.”

The two boys exchanged stupefied expressions, coloring heavily and turning to wordlessly regard each other and then Sasha so many times that Sasha nearly – _nearly_ – regretted interrupting them.

“It is not scandalous!” Latta finally all but yelped, seemingly regardless of the fact that no one had said anything of the sort.

“But of course,” Sasha agreed; if he was not careful he would laugh in the poor boys’ faces, and they both seemed to be on the verge of death by mortification.

“We – we are engaged,” Wilson explained, his face luminously red even in the dim of the room. “Next year, once everything is – we will – in Gretna Green, and.” He gestured meaningfully. “Only we have not yet made it known to our families. Please do not…” “Your secret is safe with me,” Sasha assured them swiftly. “Although, you know, it is improper to keep confidence from one’s spouse…” He could not help trailing off meaningfully, tormenting them just a bit.

“Nicky knows,” Latta said miserably. Sasha quirked an eyebrow; he suspected from the embarrassment radiating off the pair of them that perhaps Nicklas had been victim to a similar, if more debaucherous, discovery.

“So much the better,” Sasha said swiftly, and then grinned devilishly. “It is so hard to keep things private from one’s husband – a drawback or a boon of matrimony, depending on how you look at it, such… all-consuming intimacy. Although, you shall see soon enough, I suppose!”

The noise Latta made could only be characterized as a helpless whimper.

“Gentleman,” Sasha said, bowing and retreating. “Rejoin us in your own time; Nicklas and I shall wait.”

He made it – rather heroically, in his opinion – halfway down the hall until he gave way to boisterous laughter.

Upon his return to the parlor, Nicklas was all too studiously dealing and re-dealing their abandoned cards.

“Did you find it?” he asked piously.

“Oh, I’m sure you know quite well what I found,” Sasha said, attempting to feign annoyance; that was, he figured, the polite thing to do.

“I am pleased to hear it.” If Sasha was not so well acquainted with Nicklas’ countenance he might easily believe that the expression writ upon his features was indeed one of complete innocence.

“That was revenge for Zhenya and Sidney, was it not,” Sasha said as he took his seat again.

Nicklas’ mouth merely twitched in response.

-

The fortnight that followed was one of unceasing activity; no sooner had Sasha and Nicklas breakfasted each morning than they were called upon by an acquaintance of Nicklas’, most frequently Wilson and Latta, although Nicklas seemed to have no shortage of friends in London, all eager to reacquaint themselves with his presence and gently chide him for not visiting more often. Nicklas, for his part, merely shrugged and smiled, and Sasha could easily discern that the entreaties were more of form rather than any belief that Nicklas could be called upon to alter his behaviors if it did not suit him to do so.

As a pair (or just as often, a quartet, for wherever Nicklas went, Latta and Wilson were likely to follow), they called upon acquaintances and rode in the park, visited the right clubs and received all the neighbors they were obligated to. All such activities that Sasha had enjoyed every season since his youth, to be sure, and yet which all felt newly pleasurable in Nicklas’ company.

This was true enough that Sasha himself made the arrangements for their party of four to make use of the family box at the theatre one evening, and instead of feeling punished at the prospect of being confined for so many hours – as he often had in his youth, when compelled to accompany his mother – he thrilled at the notion, and at having Nicklas to accompany out in society for the evening.

Indeed, as they arrived together and greeted the familiar faces in the crowd, he could not stop himself from introducing Nicklas to everyone they encountered with little thought to either necessity or propriety – the delight of saying _my husband, Nicklas_ to whomever he could was too great.

Even when they encountered Latta and Wilson, Sasha could not stop himself. “Gentleman,” he boomed happily, shaking their hands in turn. “So good to see you again. Have you met my husband, Nicklas?”

“Pardon?” Wilson asked, confusion plain across his features. Beside him, Latta rolled his eyes in good humor.

“Surely you remember _my_ husband,” Nicklas said, attempting a flat tone that was spoiled just slightly by his amused expression. “I fear no one might make his acquaintance and not recall his abominable sense of humor.”

With time left to spare before the curtain rose, Latta and Nicklas took their leave in order to hunt down an attendant bearing refreshments, leaving Wilson with Sasha.

“I am glad you were both able to join us this evening,” Sasha said to him earnestly, “and likewise on our other excursions. It has been my great pleasure making your acquaintances; it distresses me to discover how many agreeable friends I lacked until marrying Nicklas.”

“Well,” Wilson said, coloring a bit under the praise. “We are pleased to know you as well. I confess, we – Michael especially – were unsure how Nicky’s scheme would unfold when he described it to us, but it seems we were without cause; you are so clearly suited for each other.”

There was a long moment where they merely stood silently, ensconced in the happy solitude of like-minded friends, before Wilson finally cleared his throat, clearly eager to ask something but unsure how to begin.

“Go on,” Sasha encouraged.

Wilson stammered for a moment, but finally composed himself. “It is only – how do you do it?” he asked earnestly. “To be such a doting husband. I don’t know if I have ever seen Nicky so happy as he is with you.”

“Is that so?” Sasha could not say why this startled him so, and yet it did.

“Oh yes. I – you must pardon me if I am improper, but were you worried, to be married?” Wilson bit his lip, unsure. “I ask because, well. You know that Michael and I are engaged,” he continued quietly after a moment. “I do not worry about _marrying_ him, mind you, you must not mistake my meaning. Only… what if I do not deserve him? What if I cannot make him so happy as you make Nicky?”

The genuine worry was plain and nearly pitiful on his features, and Sasha could not help but feel a swift surge of fondness for the young man, so clearly in love and desperate to be worthy of his intended.

“I – well, you and Michael are of course at an advantage,” Sasha hedged. He was unsure he was qualified to speak on the matter. “You are a love match, and Nicklas and I – we are merely a marriage of convenience, you see? Of course, we are friends, yes, and I could not have chosen a better companion, but – well. It is not the same.”

“True enough, yes,” Wilson agreed, almost shyly. “But you cannot deny that between you there is…”

At this, though, he faltered, and would not elaborate.

“In any case,” he amended, “I suppose that no marriage is entirely unique. I only wish for any insights you could offer, so that I might provide the best life possible for my Michael.”

He colored as he said this, but remained resolute, clearly embarrassed and yet all the same resolved to do all that he might in order to deserve Latta.

“I think that in being so concerned, you already demonstrate your worth. A more callous character would never worry so, and you therefore are already well poised for a life together,” he said slowly, hoping that would reassure Wilson enough. For Sasha found himself at once impressed and in hopes that he, too, could be so dedicated to earning Nicklas’ esteem as a husband.

He was not precisely sure how he himself might do such a thing, but the topic concluded immediately upon Nicklas and Latta returning, drinks in hand. They made their way together to the Ovechkin box, Wilson beaming at Latta as if they had been separated for months rather than minutes as they went.

The chatter of the crowd around them, of course, persisted, even upon the commencement of the evening’s entertainment, but once their seats had been taken, Nicklas was still and quiet, his gaze affixed upon the stage and the players. Occasionally his mouth quirked into a smile, although at what, Sasha could not say – for while he too was silent, his own attentions were focused solely upon Nicklas.

At some point, Nicklas shifted in his seat, and in recrossing his legs, his thigh brushed against Sasha’s. Although there was room enough for him to move away, he did not, leaning instead nearer in order to nudge Sasha, directing his gaze with a silent nod to a woman’s outlandishly oversized hat beneath them, so tall that it obscured the vision of the gentleman behind her.

Sasha turned and muffled his laughter against Nicklas’ shoulder; and although he ought to have pulled away, he did not. Nicklas’ expression was pleased, and that was enough to encourage Sasha – he slung his arm around the back of Nicklas’ chair, under the guise of drawing him nearer to whisper in his ear, and left it there for the duration of the evening.

If there was any sensation more pleasing and more unnerving than to be so close to Nicklas – to have Nicklas allow it, and to even lean _into_ it – Sasha could not name it.

Their party broke company upon the conclusion of the evening’s entertainment, and as they said their farewells in the theatre’s lobby, Nicklas placed his hand on the side of Sasha’s waist in order to guide him to their waiting carriage.

The contact was ever so slight, ever so brief, and yet still the greatest pleasure Sasha could name in his life to date.

“The boys seem rather taken with you,” Nicklas said as they settled beside each other in the carriage, seemingly amused and pleased in turns by this. The evening air had chilled, a fog rolling in during the production, and Sasha settled his cloak about their laps, urging Nicklas closer so that they could share its warmth.

“I do not think Michael stopped singing your praises for even an instant when we left you with Thomas,” Nicklas added.

“They are a delight,” Sasha said happily. “Even if you yourself were an ogre, I would call myself lucky enough to be your husband if only to benefit from your social connections. All your friends have been a welcome addition to my life.”

“I see precisely the heart of it,” Nicklas teased. He was so very close to Sasha, the lines of their bodies pressed snugly together. “You value me solely for my collection of enthusiastic young acquaintances who might fall all over themselves in order to list your many virtues. ‘ _Oh, Sasha is so amusing, he is so handsome_ ,’” he mimicked in what might be Andre’s voice, or Tom’s, or any number of others.

Sasha laughed. “My nefarious plans laid bare,” he said, feigning to be wounded.

Nicklas smiled to himself and leaned even closer. “What shall I do with you?” he asked, soft and sly.

Sasha’s mouth felt suddenly quite dry.

Upon their return home, Sasha found himself so desiring – so tempted – to invite Nicklas to his room, to stay near him, to join him in all ways; in short, to declare his affections, which were most assuredly too large for his body to contain in secret.

But as Nicklas took his hand in a gentle clasp at the top of the stairs where they ways would part, he found he could not speak; he could not risk what might be lost in doing so, the friendship between them that seemed to grow each day and was so dear to Sasha’s heart. Nicklas had asked for him to be a partner and a friend, and no more; Sasha could not gamble with that, no matter how dearly he wanted to kiss Nicklas, to know the delicate curve of his smile beneath his own lips.

“Goodnight,” he said instead, and only allowed himself to watch Nicklas depart down the hall until he disappeared, with the barest backwards glance, into his room.

-

The next morning, Sasha was late to rise, content to linger within the soft confines of his bedclothes and remember the evening before, and the nearness they had enjoyed: Nicklas, his hand settled proprietarily on Sasha’s waist, for all to see; Nicklas, leaning near in the box, a breath away; Nicklas, close beside him in the carriage, the warmth of this thigh as it pressed against Sasha’s.

The pleasant reverie, however, was at once dissolved when he finally dressed and descended to the parlor, taking up a seat beside Nicklas – who, judging by the expression upon his face and the palpable air of displeasure in the room, had clearly just received a most unwelcome communication in the morning’s mail.

“Nicklas?” Sasha asked, pressing the heel of his hand over his eye and gesturing at this offending missive, still clutched in Nicklas’ hand. “What is this? What has displeased you so?” Whatever it was, Sasha was immediately prepared to shake off any remaining fatigue and replace it with a remedying action in whatever form that might take.

“A letter from Andre,” Nicklas replied stiffly, his mouth a flat and furious line. “Laich has thrown him over.”

“What?” Sasha was so startled he leapt from his chair, tipping it over with a dulled thud.

“He has become engaged to a young lady.” Nicklas’ face was flat, his eyes narrowed; another man may have mistook it for vacancy, but Sasha knew at once that this was Nicklas at his most dangerous.

“But – but he can do no such thing,” Sasha protested, confused. “He and _Andre_ are engaged.”

“It would seem we all shared a delusion on that front, Andre not least of all.” Nicklas’ eyes narrowed still more. “Laich disappeared for these last several weeks, it would seem, and Andre heard nothing from him until his reappearance in town with his new fiancee.”

Sasha sat back down again.

“Apparently he has sent a letter to Andre, in order to explain himself,” Nicklas continued. “He wrote that he ‘regrets any misunderstanding on the nature of their relationship,’ and that Andre ‘must believe he would never have allowed their friendship to proceed so long had he known of Andre’s misplaced affections.’ Misplaced affections!” Nicklas tossed the letter aside angrily. “Nothing was misplaced; he led the poor boy on.”

“The scoundrel,” Sasha all but snarled. “And now he has the audacity to be seen about town? With his new fiancee, no less?”

“It would seem so. I–” Nicklas’ hands clenched, for a brief moment, into fists. “Poor Andre,” he said instead. “What can we do for him? He is heartbroken.”

“We will return home at once,” Sasha decided. “We – we will not let this stand, Nicklas. If you agree, I will have the arrangements made within the hour; we will return and set this to rights.”

Nicklas looked up at him, then, blinking slowly. “Are you quite sure?”

“Andre is as family to you, and thereby to me.” Sasha stood once more, now ready to immediately set in action a plan – any plan that Nicklas so desired. “Say the word, and I will arrange it all. I will be by your side in whatever capacity would suit you.”

“All right.” Nicklas nodded, and Sasha only allowed himself the briefest pause to appreciate the quiet smile of thanks he offered before striding into the hall, already calling for the nearest footman.

For Nicklas, he would find a way to move mountains; he needed only to ask.

-

Their departure, hours later, was, if not frantic, then hurried, and by the time they were enclosed safely in the arranged carriage, Nicklas was brooding and silent, gaze fixed firmly out of the window. He sighed unhappily several times before Sasha finally gathered himself and reached over, steadying Nicklas’ restless knee with his own palm.

“Nicklas,” he said, setting his jaw. “We will repair this, I swear it to you. I will find Laich and drag him to Andre and _force_ them to wed. If they had an understanding, there are – ways. His current arrangement is void had he an existing engagement. With the proper pressure, Laich _must_ abide by it. I will see to it that he does.”

Nicklas attempted a smile, but it was unconvincing. “I do not doubt that you could bend any man to your will,” he said appeasingly, “but I suspect to do so would only deepen Andre’s agonies – he is much too fervent a romantic, and a marriage born of force rather than love would ruin him. No, we cannot do that.”

Sasha grunted; there was a truth to what Nicklas said, much though it chafed, knowing that Sasha almost certainly _could_ force this rake to honor his commitments, and yet must nevertheless stand aside and allow him to behave dishonorably. But if that was Nicklas’ desire, of course Sasha would concede.

The carriage rattled over the rutted road, both of them silent in thought.

“I fear – well,” Nicklas said eventually, an uncharacteristic hesitance to his voice as he folded and refolded his hands. “I cannot help but wonder if I am in some part culpable for all this.” The self-recrimination was plain across his features.

“How could it possibly be so?” Sasha puzzled. “Laich is a rogue, and he alone must answer for his actions.” Sasha would see to it that he did.

“True enough. Andre, though.” Nicklas sighed. “He has – his nature is what it is,” he explained. “He has always been a creature of pure affection. But… well. Perhaps I am in part to blame for his willingness to give away his heart with too much ease.”

“But if that has always been his nature, as you say,” Sasha protested. It wounded him to see Nicklas’ displeasure turned inward in this way.

“And indeed it is,” Nicklas agreed. “But – years ago, when he was just coming of age, I was the initial target of that nature.” He shrugged, as if this was incomprehensible to him, and Sasha might have protested had Nicklas not continued. “It was not love, of course, merely – merely a predictable mixture of proximity and perhaps some amount of hero-worship, having grown up together, but nevertheless I was, for a time, the object of his affections.” He smiled, a bit regretfully and yet fondly. “You’ve never seen such a bumbling yet determined flirt as Andre at seventeen, I swear to it. It was a bit alarming, honestly, to be on the receiving end of such a concerted effort of seduction.”

Despite the lamenting tone to Nicklas’ voice and the heaviness of the situation at hand, Sasha could not help but snort in laughter at the picture.

“You laugh, but it was an endeavour to discourage him, I assure you.” The barest twist of a true smile glanced across Nicklas’ face. “I spent a summer relearning all the best hiding spots in my family’s estate in order to escape his advances. I cared for him, of course, but I could not be responsible for him in such a way – he is too dear a friend to risk ruining that in the name of… boyhood experimentation. Eventually he accepted that he must satisfy his curiosity elsewhere. I do not regret that, make no mistake, but I have always wondered if he might have… settled, a bit, had I indulged him. Perhaps with a friend to first experience such things he might have likewise learned temperance; perhaps not, but still, I am forced to wonder whether my refusal in some way exacerbated his nature.” He sighed and shrugged again, punctuating the conclusion of his thoughts.

Sasha found his heart warring with itself, at once softening at Nicklas’ tenderness towards his friend and quickening at the mere thought of Nicklas as a – a prurient creature. Of course it was not the first time Sasha had imagined such a thing, but to hear Nicklas himself allude to even the suggestion of bedding another was more than a bit overwhelming.

“Well,” Sasha said, struggling to compose himself. “Your concern for his welfare is kind indeed, if perhaps undue; physical, er, love generally opens more doors than it closes, does it not? Think to your own experience – were you settled in any fashion, after your first such encounter?”

There was an extended pause. “I do not know,” Nicklas answered eventually, and if Sasha had not been becoming such an accomplished study of Nicklas’ moods and expressions, he might have missed the brief flash of stiff embarrassment that overtook his features. “I have not yet had occasion to find out.”

“Oh,” Sasha responded, rather dumbly. The fact of that – it shocked him, quite to the bone; not from any moral altitude, but rather, the impossibility that one so alluring as Nicklas had never been touched. How could that be so? Sasha wondered. How could the wonder that was Nicklas, in all his faultless form, have gone all this time unworshipped?

These reflections so absorbed him that, he became aware, a stilted silence had arose between them.

“You must pardon my impropriety,” Sasha finally managed. “The shocks of the day have clearly caused me to take leave of my sense.”

The tension deflated from Nicklas’ frame. “It is no matter. I – thank you, for hearing me out, and for leaping so quickly into action. I do not know what we will do, but at the least I shall invite Andre to stay with us again while he composes himself.”

“Of course,” Sasha agreed. Despite the gravity of the situation at hand, it was nearly impossible to ignore the twinge of pleasure he felt at that – Nicklas had not hesitated, nor asked for permission, to extend an invitation to Andre. If little else of value arose from these events, at least Sasha could know, now, that Nicklas was truly beginning to feel at home with him.

It was this that granted him the courage to reach across the carriage and carefully grasp Nicklas’ hand in his; he ran his thumb across the back of Nicklas’ finely-honed knuckles in what he desired to be a soothing manner, hoping not to give away how affecting he found the simple gesture.

“Anything in my power,” he swore softly, if no less fervent. “I will do it to help you and Andre in any way I might. I swear it.”

“I know,” Nicklas answered; he did not withdraw his hand.

-

Andre’s second arrival at the estate was markedly different from the previous; he was morose and dispirited from the moment he disembarked the carriage, and immediately retreated to the rooms prepared for him.

Sasha and Nicklas left him to his privacy, but not without an exchange of glances as Andre’s figure disappeared into the gloom of the house.

He was, at the least, coaxed down to dine with them, although his unnaturally subdued air permeated the meal; Nicklas only picked desultorily at his plate, and Sasha himself was too attuned to Andre’s every sigh and dispirited murmur to devote any attention elsewhere.

“We will not bombard you with overbearing inquiries,” Sasha finally said when he could no longer bear it. They had retired to a parlor to enjoy – as much as they might, given the somber tenor of their party – their port, and the despair that emanated from Andre was finally too much to endure. “Only tell us what we might offer to comfort you.”

Andre waved his hand sadly. “There is nothing to comfort me, and no solace to be found.”

“Would it not comfort you if I were to blacken his eyes?” Nicklas asked pointedly. “It would comfort _me_ a great deal.”

“No, Nicky, good heavens,” Andre cried, slumping further into his chair.

“Well,” Nicklas responded unhappily, pursing his lips. “It is no more than he deserves for the way he has treated you.”

“He – you judge him too harshly,” Andre answered sadly; Sasha could not help the disbelieving scoff that escaped him. He was in agreement with Nicklas – a thrashing was no less than Laich deserved.

“Truly. It is not his fault,” Andre said. “The fact of it is, I was a blind fool, and presumed my feelings to be returned without evidence.”

“Without evidence?” Nicklas repeated disbelievingly. “You had an understanding.”

“We – I _believed_ us to have an understanding,” Andre admitted, shamefaced. “It was never voiced in so many words, but I presumed… he told me I was dear to him. I do not doubt that he was earnest in that. But any further arrangement, an engagement, I.” He bit down on the words miserably. “I interpreted his attentions as a promise, when it never was so.”

A hollow silence fell upon them all; Andre’s eyes were downcast and he appeared on the verge of tears. It was a jarring version of the lively young man Sasha had become accustomed to, and he found himself quite distressed by Andre’s miseries – not only as he might be on behalf of his husband, and to represent their mutual interests in Andre’s well-being, but as he might for a true friend; for that was what Andre had become to him.

“Permit me to speak with him,” Sasha entreated. “He can be made to see reason, to right his wrongs–”

“Don’t,” Andre all but begged. “Please, I am humiliated enough. I – it means the world to me that you would, but I cannot endure it.”

“Andre,” Nicklas said, as softly as Sasha had heard from him. “What can we do for you?”

Andre smiled sadly. “You have shown me more than enough kindness already. To be amongst friends is all that I can ask.”

He begged off a hand of cards or another drink not long after, citing a desire for rest, but paused to rest his fingertips gently on Nicklas’ shoulder as he departed. “Thank you both.” 

And then he went.

“I cannot tolerate this,” Nicklas said eventually, gripping his glass with a neatly contained fury. “He is not made to be so unhappy; it is against his nature.”

Sasha nodded thoughtfully. “Although I have known him but a fraction the amount of time you have, I cannot believe this to be the same Andre I have previously met; it saddens me greatly to see him so despondent.”

Nicklas sighed unhappily, but then rose from his chair, and offered his hand to Sasha. “Come. I want to finish the volume I began yesterday before we retire; there is nothing we can do about Andre now.”

It was a funny truth that even now, after months of marriage and familiarity, that the weight of Nicklas’ hand, and the true companionship that had grown between them, had, rather than faded into normalcy, redoubled their effects on Sasha; for as they walked together towards Sasha’s rooms and his private library, although they did not touch beyond that brief contact of hands, his heart hammered with as intimate a thrill as if Nicklas’ lips were pressed to the pulse point on his throat. The sensation, so disproportionate to the mundanity of their company, increased rather than lessened, particularly when, in the library, Nicklas draped himself carelessly over the chaise, the picture of ease.

Which, he found, was precisely as Sasha would have him.

-

So low were Andre’s spirits that, upon the household’s receipt of an invitation to a ball hosted at Lord and Lady Carlson’s estate the following week, he voiced that he was disinclined to attend – a state that Nicklas disclosed to be as unnatural as any.

“I have never known Andre to excuse himself from any sort of ball,” Nicklas revealed grimly the next morning as he sat beside Sasha in their parlor. “Typically he is an alarmingly enthusiastic dancer.”

He spoke with the air of a man who had previously been subject to involvement in said dances, much against his own nature or inclination.

“It grieves me to see him so removed from himself and his joyful nature by one so undeserving of even a second thought,” he continued sourly; for even Andre’s explanation, that Laich’s actions had been thoughtless and perhaps unfeeling but not _improper,_ had done little to elevate Nicklas’ opinion of the man. While Sasha accepted Andre’s justifications outwardly, he did so chiefly because it seemed the kindest action towards Andre himself; privately, he both mirrored and thrilled at Nicklas’ firm and unforgiving streak of loyalty.

“We cannot allow him to seclude himself in his agonies,” Sasha agreed. “That we must attend the Carlson’s and chaperone Andre there as well is indisputable. It is the only thing for his spirits.”

On day of the ball, he and Nicklas formulated a plan during their morning activities, and at the prescribed moment descended as a pair on Andre’s rooms, informing him that he must dress at once; that they would attend the Carlson’s fête; and that no argument would bear water, for they intended to remain installed at Andre’s side to ensure his compliance.

“How can you possibly ask this of me,” Andre moaned miserably; yet even as he protested, he deigned to sort through his wardrobe, writing off coats and shirts in great swaths as unfashionable, or ill-fitting, or wrong for the climate and company.

“You are resilient,” Nicklas replied, straight-faced. “You shall survive the hardship.”

An hour and another passed, Andre pausing frequently in his preparations to exclaim that he could not be seen, that he would not leave the grounds, that Sasha and Nicklas were heartless fools to insist upon it, before resuming his attempts to neaten his hair or tie his cravat just so.

“Tell me truthfully,” Andre insisted upon finally declaring his appearance “acceptable,” a critical eye still turned towards his reflection. “Will I shame myself terrifically if I show my face like this?”

“Why, never! One would not know you to be suffering a heartbreak to look at you,” Sasha said; past Andre’s shoulder, Nicklas made an elaborately mocking face, clearly amused by Sasha’s ostentatious praise aimed like an arrow precisely at Andre’s not immoderate vanity. “You are truly more handsome than ever, only with a – a – certain newly discovered gravity to your beauty.”

“Truly?” Andre asked cautiously, gazing at his reflection in the mirror anew. “I suppose there is a previously unpronounced sharpness to my cheekbones… I have had such little appetite, you know.” 

Nicklas snorted, then attempted to disguise it as merely a cough when Andre turned to him inquiringly. “Quite so,” Nicklas agreed stiltedly, clearly suppressing any further humor.

“Then I suppose there is nothing for it,” Andre replied morosely, as if he were to visit the hangman rather than a country ball. “We will go.”

So long had they stayed in Andre’s rooms that Sasha and Nicklas had but a scant time to ready themselves, Sasha foisting Semin upon Nicklas to assist him, claiming that he himself was doomed to hopelessness but that Nicklas might still look presentable.

Upon their party’s reunion in the foyer, Sasha had only the barest moment to marvel at Nicklas. For he did look luminous, a glow seeming to emanate from him. He wore a coat that must be new, for Sasha did not recognize it, and his hair was pushed away from his face, allowing the planes of his cheeks, the slope of his nose to catch the light all the better.

Sasha might have stood there admiring him for the whole of the evening were they not interrupted by Andre.

“If we must depart, let us depart,” he said moodily, checking his reflection even as they made for the waiting carriage.

“You look particularly handsome,” Sasha said softly to Nicklas as he escorted him across the drive. At this, Nicklas turned a curious expression his way, but Sasha fancied there was a pleased twist to it all the same.

“Your hair is a mess,” is all Nicklas said in response.

-

The Carlson’s manor was fine indeed, resplendently lit and with all the doors and windows thrown open to invite in the fine, warm air that lingered even as the sun began its descent.

It seemed that nearly everyone of quality from the county was in attendance. The Oshies were present, with their youngest daughter in tow, fawning over her delightedly and without pause in a way that affected Sasha’s heart. He spied Niskanen and Schmidt, Orlov and Orpik, and even across the hall – yes, that was Zhenya’s unmistakable frame, turned towards Prince Sidney’s as he fussed uncomfortably with his jacket, an action that Zhenya plainly found charming beyond measure, if the hapless expression on his face was anything to go by.

Also in attendance was Braden, a fact that surprised Sasha in no little amount; he himself had had little luck in convincing Braden to accompany him to the passel of country events that sprung up every summer, Braden insisting that his temperament was better suited to a quiet night in with a book than any party, declining as many invitations as he possibly might while still retaining an agreeable enough reputation. That he would be absent from the Carlson’s had been of no doubt to Sasha, populated as it was destined to be. And yet there stood the very same man, tucked just out of the way near a window, impeccably outfitted if visibly uncomfortable as he nodded along in silence to an older gentleman – Sasha could not recall the character’s name – who chattered away at his side.

He made his way over to greet him at the earliest chance, taking the unnamed gentleman’s spot as he departed.

“Are you lost?” he asked, affecting as quizzical an expression as he was able. “You are away you are at a _ball_ , Holtby, yes? Quite a populated one at that? Are you quite well?”

He made to reach for Braden’s forehead, as if to ascertain whether he was feverish.

“I admit, I hesitated to attend,” Braden said, ducking away from Sasha’s reach. “You know I am not a little useless at these gatherings. But, you know, it seemed – I would not want to make an ill impression upon my neighbors. I am quite able to socialize for an evening if it is in the interest of growing new friendships.”

It was immediately plain to see who, precisely, he meant by that; for even as he spoke, Braden’s gaze drifted to where Andre stood besides Nicklas, fussing unhappily at his cuffs.

“Indeed. To that end, will you not come say hello to Andre?” Sasha said, willing himself not to grin – for any hint that he was being teased would surely alarm Braden. “I am sure he would be so pleased to see you again.”

“Oh, I – I would not interrupt,” he declined bashfully. “He likely does not even recall me.”

Sasha snorted. “You spent an entire afternoon in each other’s company, man. And from what I can tell, you undoubtedly left your impression.”

Braden only flushed in response.

“Well, I will not press you now, but you must greet him at some point this evening. He could use the cheer, Braden, and I truly believe you alone might offer it to him. You have heard, I’m sure, of what has transpired…” He said no more, hesitant to name precisely the matter; surely the gossip had done that work for him, and he was not eager to relive the details.

Braden plainly knew what to make of it, though, for his expression clouded. “Yes, I have. I cannot tolerate it, the audacity of Laich, to treat someone so poorly. And one such as Andre, so –”

At that, though, he clamped his mouth shut, perhaps cognizant of saying too much, and would not speak on the matter any further. Sasha departed him shortly, although not before eliciting a promise from him that he would join their party and greet Andre in particular before the evening ended.

He rejoined Nicklas and Andre, and the three of them amused themselves well enough for the next hour, circling the hall and the ballroom, greeting their acquaintances and talking among themselves. It was enough that Andre’s temperament seemed to steadily improve, the sad moue of his mouth giving way to smiles and even the occasional bout of laughter – that is, until, they stood together in the ballroom, whereupon a new arrival to the party clearly caught his eye, causing the mirth to vanish from his face at once.

“Oh – oh, no,” Andre breathed; and as he did so, his expression crumpled in misery so pronounced that Sasha winced. Turning to follow the fraught path of Andre’s gaze, he traced it to a gentleman just making his entrance to the ballroom. He was tall and handsome, with a lovely, delicate woman on his arm, both slender gloved hands resting proprietarily upon his elbow. Although his was not a face Sasha recognized, it was plain enough, from Andre’s distress, who this might be.

Sure enough, Mr. Laich and Miss Hough were presently announced, and beside Sasha and Nicklas, Andre seemed to sway on his feet.

“Come,” Nicklas said, deftly positioning his own frame directly between Andre and Laich. “We will slip out at once; you need not even acknowledge him.”

He moved to take Andre’s elbow and steer him towards the door, but it was too late – Laich spotted them, and after a visible hesitation, excused himself from his companion and began to make his way over.

“No, no, I cannot,” Andre all but moaned, watching miserably as Laich came nearer. “Please, I cannot speak to him, I–”

“I will intercede,” Sasha promised, ready to spare Andre the indignity by whatever means he might. He stepped forward so as to intercept Laich on his approach, who hesitated once more as he came within steps of their party; he clearly was not dissuaded, though, and came closer. Sasha was not a man of violence, but drew himself up to his full height anyway, hoping to make plain without words how unwelcome Laich’s presence would be to Andre.

And if that was not effective, well. Sasha had other means.

But before any such outcomes had occasion to come to pass, before Sasha could even speak to dismiss Laich, Braden stepped forward from his position across the hall, rather apart from everything. He strode with purpose, and although he approached all four men where they stood, it was plain that he was making for Andre. It was enough to halt any greeting from Laich; they all merely watched Braden come, the picture of composure and calm.

“Mr. Burakovsky,” he said upon his arrival, and then amended, “Andre.” Although his voice was gentle as ever, there was no hesitance in it, nor in his manner. He glanced towards Laich, and then with a cool indifference, turned away. “I hope I do not interrupt, but since our last meeting I have found myself desiring to find myself in your company once more. If you are not otherwise engaged,” – and here he again flicked a dispassionate glance at Laich – “would you grant me the pleasure of stealing you away? Perhaps we might take in the view from the veranda; it is most scenic at dusk.”

“I – well, yes, of course,” Andre answered, a bit befuddled.

“Marvelous,” Braden said, and offered his arm to Andre. “Nicklas, Sasha, if you find yourself at leisure at some point, you might join us.”

“Take you time,” Andre added hastily, and then permitted Braden to lead him away through the French doors without further adieu, a dazzled and happy air about him as they went.

Sasha and Nicklas stood looking at Laich in tandem, and it was not immediately clear who of the three seemed most surprised by the events. When their collective silence began to take on a feeling of discomfort, Sasha shook his head. “Come, my dear,” he said to Nicklas, “I see the Carlsons across the hall; let us go greet our hosts.” And with the barest nod to Laich, they left him where he stood, mouth slightly agape.

“What was all _that_?” Nicklas asked as they walked slowly through the crowd, grasping at Sasha’s elbow to keep them together.

“I am not sure,” Sasha mused thoughtfully. “But I am quite intrigued to see how it might develop.” He considered. “How long do you think we ought to leave them before we can interrupt?”

Nicklas frowned. “I should say that they deserve their privacy, but with Andre that may be a dangerous proposition.”

“Do you think he can wreak too much mayhem in the space of a song?” Sasha inquired; for they were now approaching the dancers, where a quadrille had just concluded in favor of a waltz.

“Yes,” Nicklas said plainly; but he allowed Sasha to take his hand and lead him to the floor anyway.

“Recall that you were forewarned,” Sasha whispered as they took their places among the dancers, Nicklas’ hand settling at his waist. Even in the crowd, through all the layers of fabric between them, it felt like a jolt of lightning to all of Sasha’s senses.

From the first chord, all else fell away; Sasha could see nothing beyond Nicklas’ face, so close and marked by only the faintest strain of concentration as he glanced down occasionally at their feet. Sasha first thought he meant only to ensure Sasha did not tread on him, owing to his warnings against his talents, but he realized that in fact Nicklas was focused on his _own_ steps, carefully following as Sasha lead as if – as if he solely desired to impress Sasha.

That was, of course, preposterous – for merely in existing, Nicklas took Sasha’s breath away.

He could not say how long the dance lasted, only that while it did, he could think of nothing else: not Andre, nor the appearances of Laich and Braden, both so unexpected in quite differing ways; not the other guests, or their hosts, or any other aspect of the evening. Nicklas’ hand in his was his sole anchor to the world, the only point he could ever imagine ascribing value to. It was all that he would ever need.

Of course, the dance ended, as all must, and with it the rest of the world came back to focus. Nicklas dropped his hand and stepped away, just barely, but grinned in such a soft and private manner that Sasha could scarcely mourn the loss.

“Your abjurations were for nothing,” he said softly, touching Sasha’s hand just barely, the pads of his fingertips like a brand upon Sasha’s skin. “You dance very well.”

For once, Sasha could think of nothing at all to say.

“Come,” Nicklas said, rescuing Sasha from himself and offering out his arm to lead him from the dance floor. “We ought not leave Andre and Mr. Holtby alone any longer; I shudder to think of how we might find them even now.”

-

They did find them together, although in no such scandalous position; they were on the veranda still, having found two chairs and drawing them together near the railing to better enjoy the view of the candlelit lawn. Although other pairs and trios drifted around them chattering softly, Braden and Andre were quite plainly an island, tucked together closely and undisturbed by their surroundings, plainly enraptured solely by each other’s company.

“Gentlemen,” Nicklas greeted them upon their approach.

“Hello,” Andre answered, although he did not bother to dislodge his smitten gaze from Braden’s face.

“How are you finding the evening?” Sasha asked, amused at how unnecessary their presence seemed to be.

“It is very fine,” Braden answered softly. “We were speaking of poetry.” He turned to Andre, then, and asked, “Do you know sonnet fifty-three?”

Andre shook his head slightly in response, still gazing with fascinated awe at Braden’s near, tender face.

“ _Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit is poorly imitated after you,_ ” recited Braden, with meaning and grace, unfaltering both in his quotation and his ardent attention to Andre. “ _On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set, and you in Grecian tires are painted new_.” He hesitated, but smiled. “It caused me to think of you, when I came upon it after our picnic.”

“Oh,” Andre said faintly. “That is – I –” For once it seemed he could not locate the words, however, overwhelmed.

“We are superfluous here, I see,” Sasha said softly to Nicklas, and together they stepped away to leave Andre and Braden to their conversation, heads bent together.

For their part, Sasha and Nicke amused themselves, leaning against the edge of the balcony further down the veranda, talking quietly and enjoying peaceable silence in turns, greeting acquaintances who drifted near yet happy to let them move on all the same.

It was hours later, quite late indeed and with many guests having already departed, when Andre and Braden were finally persuaded to part from one another’s company, an end accomplished only after promises to call were assured, and Braden had scribbled down the names of further passages he hoped that Andre might read upon returning home.

“Thank you for your company tonight,” Andre said earnestly to Braden as they finally walked to the drive where coachmen waited. “I was – I was not eager to attend, I admit. These past weeks have been unpleasant, you see. But your kindness has quite mended my spirits, and for that I am so grateful.”

Sasha wondered that Braden did not wilt under such strong praise, but rather bowed just so to Andre. “The pleasure has been entirely mine, I assure you. And – you must forgive me if I am too bold in saying so, but any man who cannot see your worth is a fool, and undeserving. Every moment I have spent with you, I have treasured.”

“As have I,” Andre echoed earnestly; he seemed altogether lovestruck. “And... and thank you, for the selections you have recommended. I will find them the moment we return home.”

“And perhaps you might think of me while you read them,” Braden asked tenderly, before helping Andre into their party’s carriage with a lingering look.

Sasha and Nicklas bade him farewell; he scarcely glanced at them, so focused on Andre, leaving Sasha and Nicklas to glance meaningfully at one another.

It was many long moments of travel before Andre composed himself enough to speak.

“Mr. Holtby – Braden – he has extended an invitation for tomorrow,” he finally said a bit dazedly. “To myself in particular, I mean. To visit him at his home, to ride and to further discuss poetry. Do I…” He paused, turned to Nicklas as if he held all the answers; and for all Sasha knew, perhaps he did. “Would I be wise to accept?”

Nicklas tilted his head. “Andre. When has wisdom informed your choices overmuch?”

Andre pouted at that. “Be serious, Nicky. You… you know what I am like. And after all that has happened, well. Perhaps I ought… remove myself from any further entanglements for a time.”

In Sasha’s estimation, Andre rather looked as if the very thought of declining Braden’s invitation nauseated him, but he refrained from commenting.

“I do not imagine that would make you happy, Andre,” Nicklas replied, all teasing gone from his voice. “Your heart is too large entirely to remain confined.”

“Nor could it withstand further injury,” Andre replied woefully. “I do not think Braden would ever behave similar to – well. But I am often wrong, you know.”

“I believe Mr. Holtby to be a uniquely good man,” Nicklas said simply after a long moment’s consideration. “Although you might ask Alex; he has known him far longer than I.”

Andre turned to Sasha, his expression open and entreating. “Alex?”

This matter required no consideration; “Braden is the rarest sort. He would perish before behaving unkindly, or without care, towards any of God’s creatures. To one that he truly cared for, well. I can scarcely imagine a man who would be more steadfast, more caring, to their match than he. Anyone who loves and is loved by him in return would never need to doubt his devotion.”

Andre looked increasingly more aflutter as Sasha spoke, but doubt twisted his expression once more.

“Do you – do you think he might care for me in such a way?”

“I can speak for the contents of no man’s heart besides my own,” Sasha said carefully, “but I will say this much: I have never seen him look upon another with as much rapture as he does upon you. I cannot conceive that there is any lack of affection for you within him.”

Andre sat back in the carriage, a thoughtful expression. He seemed rather like a man hesitating upon a threshold, warring with desire to cross it and thereby abandon the familiar terrain behind him. Sasha could not help but lean forward once more, his voice softer.

“I know that we are newly acquainted, in the broad view of it all, but I consider you my friend, so I hope you will permit me to speak freely.” He considered his words carefully. “I encourage you to find your happiness, in whatever form it might take. Our paths to joy rarely look anything like what we have imagined them. But to turn away from them because they may take surprising shapes would be an injustice against the soul.”

He shrugged, then, not having intended to speak so ardently.

Next to him, Nicklas was gazing at Sasha with a thoughtful, almost quizzical expression, but did not say anything, only smiling softly after a moment as if satisfied by something known only to him.

Sasha could not understand it; he turned his attentions towards Andre once more.

“Thank you, Alex,” Andre said after a moment, and then corrected himself; “Sasha. You _are_ a true friend. Nicke, I am quite glad you married him.”

Nicklas, at this, cleared his throat, and finally answered – and Sasha could be forgiven for imagining that when he did, it sounded very nearly _shy_ , which certainly could not be the case in actuality – “Indeed. As am I.”

-

Andre retired to his rooms with a contemplative yet happy air about him, and Sasha could not help but sense that a key had rather been fit into a lock; now all that remained was to wait for the appropriate tumblers to fall into place, and the door allowed to swing open.

It satisfied him, and he was prepared to retire happily himself, when Nicklas stopped him with a hand on his elbow in the corridor.

“Sit with me a moment,” he instructed, and lead them both through to Sasha’s library.

They sat beside the fire, as they had so many times together, the silence comfortable if anticipatory – for Nicklas was clearly poised to speak, if content to take his time in doing so.

It was only when they were both nearly through their port when he finally did, gazing directly at Sasha with no hint of self-consciousness.

“I must thank you,” he said simply.

Sasha raised a hand at once, to wave off the very notion; for nothing he did, where Nicklas was concerned, required thanks.

“No, I must,” Nicklas protested. “You are beyond deserving of gratitude; let me make my case known.”

He resettled in his chair, and finally started, a bit haltingly.

“You – all that you have done for myself and for my family, my brother – all that you have sacrificed, and created, for the well-being and peace of strangers, that would be more than enough good deeds for a lifetime.” Here, that fond half-smile Sasha held so dear before Nicklas continued. “And yet even that does not satisfy you; you concern yourself so greatly with the happiness of my friends, perhaps even more than your own. Andre, and Thomas, and Michael – you have taken them all under your care and treated them more kindly than if they were your own. I must thank you, for that. I cannot number the ways in which our partnership has exceeded my expectations, and I consider myself most lucky to call you my partner – my friend.”

Sasha colored; he was unused to such praise, and quite sure he was undeserving of it, particularly from Nicklas, so firm of mind and resolve. Nicklas, who matched his tenacious loyalty with an unwillingness to brook untruths or deceit, and must therefore be considered most earnest in his estimation of Sasha’s value.

He loved Nicklas, he realized, and knew then that he could never hope to feel anything less.

“It is no burden,” Sasha said eventually. He regarded his hands in his lap, feeling laid bare – both from Nicklas’ words and the weight of his own newfound knowledge of his heart. It made it difficult to look up at Nicklas. “I can only design to live up to the standards you set each day, although I must inevitably fall short.” Nicklas pursed his lips as if to argue, and Sasha stopped him. “I could not imagine another husband for me,” he said softly.

Nicklas was silent, the crackle of the fire all that sounded in the room, but he reached over to Sasha’s hand and took it.

Sasha feared, suddenly, that he could not halt himself from confessing how ardently he loved Nicklas, not if they continued to sit in such intimacy; and that was, quite plainly, not what Nicklas desired.

He was Nicklas’ husband; he was Nicklas’ friend, and companion, and nothing more. Nicklas had asked for no more than that.

Sasha rose, and excused himself. “Good night,” he said softly. “Thank you for our dance.”

He could not restrain himself; he brought Nicklas’ hand, still clutched in his, to his lips and pressed a soft kiss against his knuckles before departing the room, the hammering of his heart accompanying him all the way to his bedchambers.

-

In the days that followed, Sasha found he could not steady himself, nor find any composure. The realization of the true nature of his affections for Nicklas had shaken him; for while it had been, of course, undeniable that he _desired_ Nicklas, in addition to valuing his manner and his friendship to the highest, the true understanding of what that all became in sum – a deep, fervent love surpassing anything Sasha had ever experienced – was humblingly disarming.

He attempted to busy himself in order to create distance between himself and such thoughts, but the distance would not come; not when he read the newspaper, nor fenced with Zhenya for an afternoon, or hid away in a disused room under the guise of an invented chore. All things inevitably drew him back towards thoughts of Nicklas, so that Sasha could never be truly alone, even with no one else near.

Even Andre’s presence could not be counted upon for distraction, for after his visit to the Holtby cottage the morning following the ball, he spent nearly every day in Braden’s company. It was plain to see what was developing between them, and even as it threw into stark contrast the mutual love that Sasha so lacked, and so longed for, between himself and Nicklas, it nevertheless buoyed his spirits to watch. How could true love ever do anything less?

In a week’s time Andre declared himself mended enough to return home, all thoughts of his heartbreak clearly banished.

It did not hurt, presumably, that Braden planned to accompany him.

Their trio bid their farewells after breakfast, Nicklas eliciting a promise from Andre to call upon them soon, under some unspecified pain if he did not agree. Andre embraced them both as if they were his own mama, and then he was gone.

Nicklas had planned to spend the morning in the stables, and the moment he departed for them, Sasha dashed to the attic, searching out Kuzya’s company.

His rest had been fitful the last night, much as it had for each night before it, ever since his realization – that he was in love with his husband, and the weight of that meaning.

Kuzya was installed in his usual spot, behind the large workbench scattershot with gears and bric a brac.

“Oh,” he said upon catching sight of Sasha. “What are you doing up here? You always say my workshop aggravates your nerves.”

“It does,” Sasha agreed. “One never knows what might explode without notice.”

Kuzya looked included to argue, but then nodded. “Best avoid that box with your elbow,” he advised instead, nodding towards a small tin square that looked deceptively innocuous. “What do you need?”

“Yours is an active and – curious mind,” Sasha said. “Please, help me make sense of my own. I am lost and in need of guidance.”

“I fear I am not qualified for whatever you may ask, but speak freely,” Kuzya said. If a bit of caution colored his words, Sasha could not blame him. It was difficult even to summon the words, to speak them out loud.

“It is concerning Nicklas,” he finally admitted. “I – my feelings towards him have changed.”

Kuzya looked surprised. “Do you regret the marriage?” he asked. “I am surprised – you seem so attached, always in one another’s company.”

“No, heavens,” Sasha replied, the very notion alarming. “No, it is quite the opposite.”

Kuzya looked perplexed.

“I am in love with him,” Sasha admitted hoarsely. It was the first time he had said as much aloud, and hearing it spoke in his own voice only confirmed that it was the truth. “Completely and irrevocably in love.”

There was a pause, punctuated only by quiet fizzing _pops_ from a jar on a far shelf. “And?” Kuzya finally asked.

“That is it,” Sasha said.

Kuzya’s expression was curious indeed. “Forgive me if I disclose my own ignorance, but how might this state be considered a problem?”

“Because it is not _mutual_ ,” Sasha replied emphatically, taking a seat in an empty chair. “He is my friend, and we are married out of mutual interest. There is no desire for anything more, and to – to suggest, to even _hope_ for it would violate our arrangement.”

Kuzya inclined his head, encouraging Sasha to speak. It was, he found now, a relief, to finally unburden himself, and he could not stay the words any longer.

“You know I never thought I would marry,” he said. “Nicklas’ scheme seemed to suit so well; a friendship, a partnership, and no more. How could that not be enough? And yet – and yet now, I fear it may not be. How can I look at him without seeing all that I desire, and all that I cannot have? I did not imagine I would ever feel constrained by our marriage, and yet now I wonder: can I ever be content?”

If Kuzya meant to answer, it was interrupted, for behind him, there was a creak of the floorboards, and Sasha jerked his head, alarmed to see none but Nicklas himself stood rigidly in the doorway, a blank tension having overtaken his features.

“Forgive me,” Nicklas said, voice hard and clipped. “I came only to ask Evgeny a question.”

He had, quite apparently, overheard enough; the displeasure that radiated from him in quite every aspect made that plain.

“Nicke–” Sasha began, an iron fear tightening within his chest; the thought of Nicklas overhearing his confessions to Kuzya was as deep a terror as he could conceive. He did not know how he might ever explain himself, how to quell the waves he had set in motion.

He did not have opportunity to find out, because Nicklas cut him off forcefully, a cold and powerful wave of scarcely contained displeasure silencing Sasha effectively.

“Do not trouble yourself; I had a matter to speak of, but it may wait. You are clearly occupied.”

“Please,” Sasha said, although what he pleaded for he did not know. He had risen to his feet, it would seem, and Nicklas now took a sharp step away from him.

“I am needed elsewhere,” Nicklas answered coldly. “If you will excuse me.”

Sasha had known, true enough, the fortitude of Nicklas’ character, the resolve with which he stood in nearly all circumstances. He had admired it from the start, and now knew it to be one of a thousand things he loved about Nicklas. But to now be at its mercy, to know that there was little he could do to atone, to sway Nicklas to a kind word or glance he was disinclined to give – it sent a bolt of despair through him.

“Wait,” he called as Nicklas moved to depart; and miraculously, he halted, one eyebrow raised.

“Will you join me to dine tonight?” Sasha asked softly. He could think of nothing else to say; all he could hope for was a promise that Nicklas was not lost to him forever, in whatever form he might attain it.

“As you wish,” Nicklas responded shortly, no abundance of patience or affection in his tone; it was the answer of a man fulfilling his duty and no more. And then he was gone, leaving Sasha with the distinct sensation that he was a man too far from shore, with no footing to be found, nothing to cling to.

-

Despite his prior assent, Sasha still doubted that Nicklas would appear to dine with him that evening. His footfalls in the hall, then, as they approached the dining-room, were welcome to Sasha, and buoyant to his spirits. Perhaps things were not so soured between them – and even if they were, surely Nicklas’ presence was a sign that Sasha might yet be forgiven.

Nicklas made his entrance without even a word of greeting, however, and remained silent throughout their meal. The tension between them was as thick as fog, and Sasha equally as powerless to change it as he might the weather. It took until the last of their plates were brought out before he could muster his courage to speak, unable to endure the strain any longer even as he was not sure what he might say to ameliorate it.

“If I might...” he began.

Before he could begin to order his thoughts properly, however, Nicklas set down his knife and interrupted.

“My cousin, Lord Karlsson, has requested my company at his home in Bath for an indefinite period,” he informed Sasha brusquely, failing to meet Sasha’s eyes in favor of a location on the wall behind him. “I have agreed to join him. I will take a horse to town in the morning – he has arranged my travel from that point.”

The plans, clearly, had been fixed and set; in no fashion did his assertion allow any room for argument.

“I believe the distance may be of value,” he added coolly.

“Nicklas,” Sasha said, and the pain in his voice was audible. “Please, do not depart without allowing me to explain. I know that you must be troubled by what you heard–”

“I will say only one thing on the matter, and no more,” Nicklas said firmly. “When we met – when we agreed to this marriage, I made it plain that I would not accept anyone who would suffer from the arrangement. You _knew_ this to be of the utmost importance to me, and agreed still. If you now feel – feel constrained, or at a disadvantage in our marriage, well. Not only have you no one to blame but yourself, but you have injured me as well.”

Sasha could not endure it any longer; each word felt akin to a splinter in his chest. “For heaven’s sake, let me _speak_ ,” he said, surprised even by his own strength. He was still not sure what he might say to justify himself, only that it was cruel of Nicklas to refuse him the chance.

For a moment – just a moment – a flash of something appeared upon Nicklas’ features. And perhaps it was only Sasha’s wild, hopeful imagination, but it seemed as if in that instant, Nicklas softened, something weary and yielding coming over him.

As fast as it came, though – if indeed it ever had – it was gone, Nicklas’ countenance schooled into cool indifference once more.

“I will depart tomorrow,” Nicklas he reaffirmed stiffly, unyielding as the most deeply-rooted tree. “If there is nothing more, I will take my leave to make my preparations.”

It appeared undeniable that while the months of their marriage may have affected a dramatic change upon the contents of Sasha’s heart, in no way had they altered Nicklas’ resolve. Sasha saw that there would be no swaying him.

He could never compel Nicklas, his Nicklas, to endure any suffering, and it was plain that to keep him here a moment longer would cause nothing but pain. Sasha knew himself to be a selfish man, but he was not cruel. He could not be, and never, never to Nicklas.

“Of course,” he agreed softly, dropping his gaze to his forgotten meal. He nudged the plate away.

Nicklas stood, and for a moment he did not move, only regarded Sasha, his hunched frame. It was as if he was waiting for something; whatever that might be, though, Sasha could not tell, and could not, therefore, offer it to him.

“Safe travels, husband,” he finally managed, even as his stomach roiled unhappily.

Nicklas would depart; he would leave, and would not return for weeks, perhaps months. When he did, it would be only out of duty. Sasha knew it, and it ruined him.

“Thank you,” Nicklas said; Sasha could not ascertain his tone, and before he might consider it further, Nicklas was gone.

-

He slept in fits and starts that night, unable to put his mind to rest. To think of Nicklas departing at all, let alone under such ill circumstances – and for an indefinite period of time, no less – set a squirm of discomfort all throughout Sasha that he could not abide. The only solace he could find was the foul weather that arrived past three, rattling the windows with wind and noisy rain. 

When he finally arose at dawn, he suspected he had not slept any length of time surpassing an hour. The storm persisted, and as Sasha dressed slowly for the day, he reflected that it was an appropriate setting for his black mood.

Rather than venture downstairs, he instead lingered in his chambers, stoking the fire in the library half-heartedly. It felt childish, hiding in his rooms like this to avoid another discomfiting encounter, but he did not think his heart could endure further coldness from Nicklas. He would give him space, allow him to leave unbothered, and to be free of the pains Sasha clearly caused him.

It was the best he might offer his husband.

It was scarcely another hour when there was a tap at his door, and then Semin stepped inside.

“Nicklas is departing now,” he informed Sasha with a quiet nod of his head. “Should you wish to see him off.”

And despite his previous resolution, he could not stop himself from following Semin.

Out in the drive, the rain still spitting down unhappily, they found Nicklas astride a horse – not Alexander, this time, but rather Iphigenia – and as he moved to spur her into motion, he clearly caught sight of Sasha.

For a bare moment, Sasha hoped that perhaps, even after all that had transpired, Nicklas might smile at him, and found that if he did, that would be enough to sustain him – one smile from Nicklas would buoy him enough to endure whatever else came.

Nicklas merely nodded, though, adjusted his collar against the weather, and then turned his horse away, towards the road.

Sasha watched his figure recede, and then eventually, disappear; and even after that, kept his eyes fixed on the spot where Nicklas had last been.

“He will return,” Semin said eventually, and clasped Sasha on the shoulder briefly before leaving him, alone once more.

He stood there a long moment, too many competing thoughts consuming him to allow him to pick out any one in particular. The ghost of Nicklas’ shape lingered still behind his eyes, and he was seized, then, by the terrible premonition: that Semin was wrong; that if Sasha watched him go and did not move, Nicklas would not return to him, not ever.

Sasha imagined he had known fear, before, but this surpassed anything else.

“Hell,” Sasha swore, and before he might begin to doubt himself turned and ran for the stables.

He rather threw a saddle on Alexander once he arrived there, so carelessly that any other horse would have bristled at him. But Alexander tolerated it, allowed Sasha to swing himself astride with great haste and spur him into a canter.

The rain was falling harder, now, and Sasha felt something frantic mounting within him with each beat of Alexander’s hooves upon the dirt. They seemed to fall in time to the only thought he could sustain: _Nicke, Nicke, Nicke._

His heart beat too quickly in his chest as he spurred Alexander along the drive and down the road, knowing only that he must catch Nicklas. He hoped only that owing to the storm Nicklas would travel more cautiously than he was himself, allowing Sasha to close the distance between them.

When at last he finally rounded a bend and saw the hazy form of Nicklas atop Iphigenia, obscured by the now torrential rain, the sensation that overtook him was impossible to name – relief, and fear, and all-consuming affection, none were adequate.

And then all was replaced with terror, cold and pure, for a crack of thunder sounded nearby; Iphigenia startled at the bolt, and in the mud lost her footing. She reared back and slipped, and Nicklas, in sickeningly slowed-down time, was thrown from her back.

Sasha did not hesitate; he leapt from Alexander, running as fast as he could in the mud and driving rain for Nicklas, who lay on the ground, unmoving.

-

The moments after that were disjointed: Sasha, carrying Nicklas in his arms through the worsening rain back to the house; dispatching Semin and Kuzya to summon a doctor and retrieve the horses from where he had tethered them to a tree; escorting the doctor to Nicklas’ bedside, where still he did not wake, even as the doctor examined him, eventually leaving after whispering his findings to Sasha.

Sasha and Nicklas both were redressed in dry clothes, the fire was stoked as high as it could be, and then there was nothing to do at all. They had been informed that they could only make Nicklas comfortable, and wait for him to regain himself.

Semin and Kuzya moved in and out of Nicklas’ rooms as the hours passed, bringing broth and whisky for both parties, for Sasha could not be persuaded to move from Nicklas’ side. His chair was pulled directly alongside the bed, and he clasped both Nicklas’ hands as if he might drift away should Sasha let go.

After a time, he felt himself drifting off, his head bobbing up and down as his eyes shut for longer and longer stretches before he could manage to wrench them open again, attuning them once more to Nicklas’ features, pale and still. He could not allow himself sleep, though, no matter how badly he might need it; not with Nicklas like this.

It was hours later when, after one such jolt of sudden wakefulness, Sasha found himself greeted by the most beautiful sight he had even been privy to: Nicklas’ eyes fluttering softly open.

“You are awake,” he said, his voice raw with relief. “Thank God, Nicke, thank God.” 

Nicklas struggled to sit up, but Sasha touched his shoulder, imploring him to lie still. “No, do not move; you were thrown from your horse.”

Nicklas winced, and a splotch of color appeared on his otherwise pale face.

“Tell me,” he asked eventually, once his faculties had better regained him. “Tell me what happened.”

“After you departed, it – Iphigenia startled from the storm. She lost her footing, and you were thrown. I brought you back here, as quick as I could. The doctor has been to see you, although of course you did not wake while he was here,” Sasha answered, trawling his memory for the relevant information, even as it pained him to revisit that horrible moment. “Your ribs are bruised, but he thinks not broken. Your head – we must be careful. He advises you stay abed for a fortnight at least, but altogether it – it could have been much worse.” The words, even now, sent a sickening nausea throughout him.

Nicklas blinked slowly, taking this in. “And you… found me? You did,” he said carefully, seeming to slowly recall. “You were there – you had come after me, and saw me thrown. You – carried me back?” The last part, it seemed, was merely a guess, and Sasha nodded in confirmation.

“You were not moving,” he said hoarsely. “When I reached you where you fell. You did not move, not even when I – when I touched you, and I thought.” His throat seized, unable to form the words. “The last words we had exchanged were cross. If that had been – if – I could not live with that knowledge, not if…” His words failed him once more.

“Why did you come after me?” Nicklas asked quietly.

Sasha knew, then. He must say the words, now. It would ruin what they had, no doubt, but it was clear. His love for Nicklas was too great to remain confined within himself.

“I am sorry,” Sasha all but whispered. He could not force himself to relinquish his grasp on Nicklas’ hands, although he knew that he ought. Like as not, this would be the nearest they were destined ever to be after this moment; he was not inclined to conclude it prematurely. It was but a bare mimicry of what he so desired, but it was plain now that it was the most he would ever be graced with.

“For what?” Nicklas’ expression was flat, although Sasha wondered if it might not disguise – nerves?

“For loving you,” Sasha said; and there, there it finally was, the truth that would shatter them. It was said, now, and could not be reversed. “I love you, Nicklas. I could not bear to let you go, so I came after you to beg you not to leave, not like that, and… Nicklas. I am sorry.”

The silence stretched, agonizing. Even still, he held Nicklas’ hands in his own.

“But you told Evgeny that you could not be content in our marriage,” Nicklas answered, slowly. “That you – that you regretted our union, that you felt constrained by it…”

Sasha stared, mouth agape, the understanding of what Nicklas must have heard and presumed settling upon him with a sickening weight. “Because I _love_ you,” he answered hoarsely, and in saying it a second time he knew it to be even more true. “That is what I regret, for I know it is not what you want from our union. You did not marry me so that I might love you. I know that in doing so I – I have irreparably damaged what exists between us, and I hope only that you might someday forgive me.”

He tried, then, to let go of Nicklas’ hands; he could no longer impose on Nicklas, could not clutch at him as if he was his own when it was never to be so. He must let Nicklas go.

Only he could not; for when he attempted to, Nicklas gripped tighter.

“You are a fool,” he said, softly, and before Sasha could agree, Nicklas, unexpectedly, _laughed_.

“Are you truly so blind?” he asked, and Sasha could think of nothing, nothing at all to say, and so could only blink dumbly. “You are _mine_ ,” Nicklas said, quiet and firm. “From nearly the moment we met, you have had my heart.”

Sasha could scarcely make sense of what he heard; for it could not be as he imagined, that Nicklas – that Nicke could care for him – could _love_ him, as Sasha so loved Nicke. It was beyond his capacity for understanding.

“You must tell me,” he finally said. “You must tell me what you want, because I cannot trust my own mind; it must betray me, for that is the only reason I can find – that I have dreamed to hear you say these words, and now imagine my heart’s desire to be granted. Tell me, Nicke; I will give you anything you desire.”

Nicklas released Sasha’s hands, then, a loss that he felt deeply, but which was soothed at once; Nicklas shrugged off Sasha’s protestations and cautiously pressed himself up against the cushions, wincing only slightly. When he was upright, he took Sasha’s face in his gentle hands, til barely a breath was between them.

“You,” he said. “You are what I desire. That is all.”

The press of Nicklas’ lips against Sasha’s own was sweeter than he ever dared dream it; all else fell away, inconsequential, pale in contrast to the joy Sasha felt. For Nicklas was kissing him, his husband, his love, and no man could ever steal that away from Sasha; he would know this wonderment until his last breath.

“Remain here tonight,” Nicklas instructed when at last he pulled back, only scarcely. His instruction only just belied the subtlest fear, that perhaps Sasha would not obey; that was for naught, of course, although it thrilled Sasha to know that he was as dear to Nicklas as Nicklas was to him. There was mere inches between them now, and even that felt too wide by far.

“Remain here with me tonight, I will not be parted from you. Not now.”

“Nor ever,” Sasha swore, and meant it. Now united, no force could drive them apart.

-

Nicklas did not permit Sasha to leave his side, as promised. Rather he insisted that Sasha climb into bed beside him immediately, a feat that Sasha achieved with, what he felt, was not unheroic dignity.

When Semin looked in on them later, it was with a mere quirk of his eyebrow.

“You are surprised to see me awake?” Nicke asked mildly, his mischief perhaps disguised to any besides Sasha. For plainly it was not just that Nicke was awake, but that he was tucked against Sasha’s chest, a quilt across their laps and both of them in their soft chemises, Sasha’s coat forgotten in a heap.

“Surprised and pleased,” Semin answered gracefully. “You gave us all a fright. Poor Sasha was frantic.”

Nicke turned a curious eye towards Sasha as Semin departed silently, and Sasha could not bring himself to utter even a form protest; Nicke was so dear to him, and to be allowed to now communicate that – how any injury to him injured Sasha as well – was not to be taken lightly.

He hoped all this was communicated in his shrug. Nicke seemed pleased, so perhaps it was so.

There they remained, Nicke drifting into rest and frowning even in sleep when Sasha attempted to disentangle their bodies so that he might repose more comfortably. It could not be the most advantageous of positions, but Sasha was not man enough to enforce their separation, and thus they slept together, safe.

The following days of Nicke’s recovery were less peaceful, as he immediately grew restless. He allowed Sasha to fawn over him, to help him eat and to brush away his hair when it fell across his eyes, to kiss the rise of his temple and cheekbones as often as he desired, but invariably he insisted that Sasha must be bored, that _he_ was bored, that it would be _no_ trouble at all to move them at least to the parlour so that he might look at something “besides these damned walls.”

Sasha only smiled placidly, kissed his husband, and settled him back into bed. There were no risks he was willing to take, not with Nicke’s well-being.

His resolve, though, soon became tested, particularly as Nicke insisted that he continued to sleep nestled in the crook of Sasha’s arms, fitted up against him precisely and intimately.

Days before the fortnight of bedrest was due to expire, Sasha woke at an ungodly hour, overwarm to his core. The only light of the room was the moon as it shone through the curtains, not even a candle remaining lit, and with Nicke clutched tightly to him, Sasha felt as if to boil over in more than one capacity.

“Alex,” said Nicke, clearly no more asleep than he. “Sasha. You are awake.”

“Yes,” he replied haltingly; for while it was undeniable, so too was his state, one not entirely proper.

Against the expanse of his body, Nicke squirmed. So positioned as he was in Sasha’s arms, it had the effect of nearly setting him alight with flames, and he could not restrain a low groan from escaping.

Nicke turned to face him, then, although gaining no further distance between them. Sasha felt plainly every capable plane of Nicke’s form where it pressed against his own.

“Husband,” he said to Sasha warmly, and kissed him.

This kiss was not so chaste as the others, if still imbued with feeling. Now, though, something more base and instinctive simmered there, that which Sasha had so long attempted to keep himself from, that which yearned to touch and to be touched by Nicke, by only Nicke – and now that he could, he feared he might never find the strength to stop. Each new inch of Nicke that he encountered – the dip of his waist under Sasha’s hands, the formidable strength of his shoulders, the grasp of his fingertips where they seized Sasha’s own hips and drew him closer – each one told Sasha that he would never be content until he mapped the entirety of Nicke’s body, first with his hands, then with his mouth, until he knew exactly what to offer Nicke, how best to bring him to ecstasy in the manner such a perfect creature deserved.

Nicke’s hand slipped beneath his chemise, and there he paused, his palm resting on Sasha’s chest almost contemplatively, until he withdrew so that he might divest the garment.

“I have wanted this,” Nicke admitted, low and fierce, his hands returning to their station on Sasha’s chest. “I have wanted _you_ , Sasha, since the moment I saw you in the sports hall.”

“Please, Nicke,” Sasha whispered. “Anything. I am yours to take.”

Nicke’s hands were now lower. “I have pictured you,” he said, quieter. “When I am alone. I have thought about you, and nothing has ever consumed me so.”

Sasha groaned again.

His strong thigh was now between Sasha’s own, and he had no hope of refusing this; he could hope only to compose himself, recalling that Nicke had no experience, here. That each touch Sasha offered to him would be the first, and the knowledge of the fact caused Sasha’s blood to rise even as he reflected on how much care he would – he _must_ take – with Nicke.

To have such a responsibility for Nicke’s pleasure was the greatest honor he could conceive.

When he attempted to settle Nicke on his back amongst the cushions, though, he winced, and Sasha was aghast to find he had forgotten Nicke’s quite recent injuries.

“I am sorry,” he nearly cried, the thought that he might have furthered Nicke’s discomfort in any capacity untenable. “Perhaps – perhaps we ought wait till you are better recovered.”

This notion seemed to displease Nicke even more greatly than it did Sasha, a scowl of disapproval writing itself across Nicke’s features. “I am not broken,” he said with some impudence. “Do not deny me this, not when I have been in want of it so long.”

Sasha was only a man, and a selfish one at that; it was all the instructed he required. He moved Nicke again, this time with greater care, until he was nestled gently amongst the cushions, looking up expectantly at Sasha.

“If you are in pain – if you hurt at all,” Sasha cautioned; for he was, as always, helpless to do anything but that which Nicke desired.

“I am not,” Nicke insisted. “I need only you.”

Well –- Sasha could offer him that.

It was all that he could do to keep his pace slow as he drew off their remaining clothing, first Nicke’s chemise and then his breeches. Each new inch of skin he discovered upon Nicke he touched gently, entranced by the magnificent glow that seemed to come from somewhere deep within Nicklas, the softness and strength that coexisted in all parts of him, at all that was Nicke, and all of Nicke that was now _his_.

“You must–” Nicke finally breathed; his seemingly endless control was slipping, a flush across not only his face but his chest as well, his golden hair curling damply behind his ears. “You must give me more, I am – I –”

“I will.” Sasha dropped his hands further, exploring all that he could find of Nicke, every precious inch of him, until he reached his manhood. The sound that Nicke let out at that first touch was ruinous; Sasha found he must speak as he moved his hand slowly, or lose himself entirely. “I have imagined this moment a hundred times,” he admitted. “I have thought – I have _dreamed_ , I –”

“ _More_ ,” Nicke gasped, and wrenched Sasha down towards him so that their bodies were flush, chest to chest and hip to hip, the nearness and intimacy of their arousal slipping against one another dizzying. Sasha encouraged Nicke to shift against him, the two of them moving in tandem, each thrust bringing them closer to ecstasy.

“My love,” Sasha gasped as he held tight to Nicke. He felt himself coming undone, and it drove him to need Nicke closer, even as there was nothing between them, not an inch, not even a breath; he would crawl inside Nicke if he could. “My love, my treasure. My _husband_.”

“Yes,” Nicke answered, his voice just as ragged. “I am yours. You are mine, and I will have you every night, if we so desire. Every way. Sasha, I–”

He inhaled sharply and went silent; the grasp of his fingertips upon Sasha’s hips was like iron, and with a final quiet gasp he spent himself against Sasha.

That was more than Sasha could endure; a wave of unnameable feeling swept through him, knowing that Nicke was _his_ , truly, in every way another might be; that he had brought Nicke to this new and glorious place of pleasure; that for the rest of his days, Nicke’s happiness was his to ensure. That was all it took to send Sasha following.

“Darling,” Sasha whispered much later, when they were better composed, or as near to it as they might come, neither willing to move apart.

Nicke was quite nearly asleep again, but he deigned to open his eyes just slightly and examine Sasha. “Yes?”

“I love you,” Sasha said, brushing back Nicke’s hair tenderly.

“Oh,” Nicke answered; and even he could not infuse a sufficient amount of disinterested into his pleased voice to be convincing. “Is that all?”

“That is all,” Sasha confirmed. “I can say it freely now, and so must do so at every opportunity.”

Nicke’s eyes closed once more, although a smile remained upon his face. “Very well,” he murmured softly. “Only keep your voice soft when I am at rest.” 

“As you wish,” Sasha answered, and then they were both silent, at peace, until sleep took them again.

-

On a bright but cool morning, autumn quite plainly at its height, Sasha and Nicklas rode side by side on the road to Braden’s cottage, a picture of contentment. Clytemnestra and Alexander whickered and ambled merrily, neither Sasha nor Nicke inclined to reign them in with any urgency. They knew well the path to Braden’s, as Nicke and Sasha had taken to visiting so regularly in recent weeks.

“I hope this winter is not too hard,” Nicke commented, gazing with little affection at the changing leaves, seeming to find little to regard kindly among their new hues.

“We might visit Mama and Papa on the continent if you require a gentler climate,” Sasha offered; although his tone was teasing, his mother had been writing with an increased urgency, requesting a visit so that she might meet Nicke. Nicke did not seem put off by the suggestion, however, and inclined his head thoughtfully, and Sasha thought that perhaps they might have occasion to appease his mother’s wishes sooner than expected.

“Perhaps we might,” Nicke said, and Sasha was delighted to discern an air of hesitation in his answer – for it would seem that little else in the world could shake Nicke’s firmly-rooted self-assurance than a mention of meeting his mother-in-law. That he so plainly worried that he would not meet her expectations thrilled Sasha more than anything, clearly baseless though it was, for any mother could see that even if Nicke _did_ possess any faults – a fact Sasha was not sure to be true – Sasha would love them as well, as he loved all of Nicke, completely and with all he had.

“Well, soon enough,” he said instead, choosing to spare Nicke further discussion. “In any case, we will have Thomas and Michael to host before long, and I dare say they will occupy our attentions fully.”

“I dare say,” Nicke repeated dryly; for the pair had written quite recently, and having had announced their engagement in a most dramatic fashion to their families, were disappointed to find that none were distressed or even surprised by the revelation. The only material change was that now their mothers were dedicated to a putting on a lavish event, halting their plans for an elopement to Gretna Green, and both young men were entirely consumed by their scheming, and seeking a respite.

“In the meantime, I shall devote myself to the cause of keeping you warm,” Sasha added, a sly grin on his face. He urged Clytemnestra closer to Nicke and Alexander, near enough that he could graze the powerful line of Nicke’s thigh with his fingertips before pulling away again. It resulted, precisely as Sasha had intended, in Nicke affecting a put-upon scowl that was rather less convincing for the flush that rose on his cheeks.

“I would tell you you are incorrigible, but I suppose it is better you relieve yourself of these impulses before we meet our friends.”

Sasha laughed. “My dear, we are the old married couple; of the two, Andre and Braden are certainly more liable to behave scandalously. Indeed, we perhaps are obligated to act as respectable chaperones for them – to preserve their honor, you see.”

“They are doomed, in that case,” Nicke murmured, not at all unhappily. “I could not imagine a less qualified chaperone than you.”

“Thank you,” Sasha responded, beaming in pleasure, and they rode the rest of the way in the contented silence that so characterizes a happy marriage. It was not a state Sasha had previously imagined would generate such a purely incandescent, all-consuming contentedness in himself – to simply ride quietly alongside his husband on a fine autumn day – and yet now he could not imagine life without such a pleasure.

As they rounded the final bend in the road, Braden’s home came into view, and with it, the pair in question. Andre and Braden sat in the garden atop a wool blanket – the very same from their first meeting, Sasha believed – with another wrapped around Andre’s shoulders against the chill. For his part, Andre was reclined on the ground, his head resting happily across Braden’s thigh, who above him was holding a small volume from which he was reading aloud.

Sasha and Nicke dismounted their horses as quietly as they could, both quite unwilling to disturb the tableau before them.

“‘Now counting best to be with you alone,’” Braden was reading as they approached, his free hand twined in Andre’s hair, stroking gently through its tangles. He glanced up at them and nodded a greeting, but did not hesitate in his recitation, clearly attuned to his beloved above all else. “‘Then better’d that the world might see my pleasure.’”

Andre’s eyes were closed, and did not open even as he recited in turn. “‘Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, and by and by clean starved for a look; possessing or pursuing no delight, save what is had or must from you be took.’” He opened his eyes, then, and smiled up at Sasha and Nicke. “Oh, hello.”

“We are not interrupting too terribly, I hope,” Sasha said with a sly raise of his eyebrows. In response, Braden colored, but did not move to put a more proper distance between himself and Andre – who, for himself, remained such the picture of contentment that if Sasha had any inclination for oils, he might paint it to best represent the word.

“Always,” Andre answered. Nevertheless, he swung himself up so that he was seated – although he did not gain any particular space from Braden, leaning against his side as closely as was possible. “Have you brought me something nice today?”

Nicke made a face, but reached inside his jacket pocket for the small parcel tucked away there.

“You are entirely spoilt,” he grumbled even as he passed over the small array of finely embroidered handkerchiefs he had purchased upon their last trip to town.

“Precisely as he ought to be,” Braden confirmed. He pressed a kiss to Andre’s temple to illustrate the matter.

“Oh, leave it off,” Andre said happily; it was unclear to whom he was directing this. In any case, he accepted the parcel eagerly, unwrapping them under Nicke’s repressedly pleased gaze.

“These are only on account of my knowledge that you are incapable of retaining your own for any length of time,” Nicke cautioned. “Braden may yet be unaware of your carelessness and ill-prepared to cater to it.”

“I am sure he is not, but thank you, Nicky. They feel of fine quality.” The notion seemed to please Andre; Nicke only pursed his lips, and Sasha knew he was deciding whether to argue the fact on principle, despite that they had been expensive indeed.

Andre fawned over his gift for a moment, and then held out a hand so that Braden might escort him to his feet. “Come inside, then, it’s turning to chill. Oh, you must see what Braden has done to the house.”

“It is nothing, darling,” Braden said humbly, but Andre was already off, praising the renovation project Braden had undertaken to tailor the rooms to Andre’s particular needs.

The two proceeded, arm in arm, and Sasha permitted them to move ahead, holding Nicke back.

“You are secretly soft at heart,” he said to Nicke, unable to keep the joy from his face as he tucked a finger beneath Nicke’s chin. “No one who has so effectively adopted such a brood could be anything but.”

“I am not,” Nicke argued. “I am responsible in part for Andre’s presence in Mr. Holtby’s life, and must therefore share the burden of his needful nature. That is all.”

“Deny it if you must; it will not change my mind,” Sasha insisted, and leant down to kiss Nicke. “I would not have you any other way, you know. You may retain your cool facade in public so long as I know your soul as I do.”

“Do you,” Nicke replied, rather fainter. “What is it, then.”

“Soft, as I have said,” Sasha mused. Andre and Braden were now nearly out of sight, and he permitted himself another kiss. “And yet fearsome. Heaven help anyone who might hurt your friend.”

Nicke looked as if to argue again, and Sasha interrupted him. “You are uncommonly particular when you dine,” he continued, “and prone to catch a chill. You are tender and indulging with children, when you think no one is observing you, at least. And you may like my horses more than you like me. _That_ is your nature.”

“Not all of your horses,” Nicke replied, smile soft upon his features once more. “Just Alexander, I think.”

“I will accept that,” Sasha answered. He took Nicke’s hand in his, and marveled that he might – that he need not let it go, not if he did not care to. Nicke was his, and he was Nicke’s; it was a fate he could not own to deserving, but he did not intend to squander even a moment of it.


End file.
